Ebb and Flow
by scarylolita
Summary: Stan is still coping with the fact that he was the victim of a hate crime. Instead of dealing, he decides to make everyone else's business his own and help others when he can't help himself: Kyle has a secret and things go wrong when Eric catches wind of it, Craig is slowly coming out of last summer's bad shroom trip and Kenny's side job gets him in trouble. Slash.
1. Everyone has problems

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **I feel like my Kyle/Stan angst always has a different flavour than my Kenny/Craig angst even tho much of it deals with the same stuff LOL.**

 **This story is a little choppy and there's a lot going on, but it's because Stan is trying to help everyone in the world since he doesn't know how to cope with his own struggles.**

 **Warnings: blackmail, mentions of sex work & hate crimes/assault, eating disorder, abortion**

* * *

I pray when I feel helpless.

It happens a lot – far more than I'd like it to and far more than I'd ever admit aloud.

I don't know if God is real, but I like to believe he/she/they are . I like to believe there is some reason for all the fucked up suffering going on in the world. I mean, there has to be… right? It can't all just be meaningless. I refuse to believe that such awful events serve no purpose.

There's no going back to the simpler times. I'd give anything to get those years back. I always took advantage, thinking things would always be so simple. I was wrong. I never really believed my parents when they told me things would get hard when I got older. I get it now.

I feel like everything has gotten so fucked up over the past few years. Not just for me, but for everyone.

Maybe this shit-hole town is cursed.

Craig still hasn't recovered from his shroom trip of 2014. Kyle tried to off himself. Butters _succeeded_ in offing himself and his suicide note landed his abusive parents in prison after a long trial and a lot of digging. Kenny is a prostitute. Tweek dropped out and now works for his parents at their café (which is named after him). Wendy started dating a college dude and he ran off when he realized she was pregnant.

And me? I guess I have PTSD. Well, I'm not guessing. I was diagnosed with it some years after my depression really hit.

I was sixteen and towards the end of summer, I was the victim of a hate crime. I just came out. My parents knew and they advised me not to make it known, but I didn't listen. I should have, but I didn't want to keep pretending. I thought it would be for the best. I thought I could handle whatever stupid bullying I'd face, but I was wrong because this wasn't bullying. This was something on an entirely different and crueller level.

I made national headlines. I even made Canadian news. Luckily, since I was a minor they didn't use my name. Still, most of the people around here know it was me. That's how it goes in small towns. If one person knows it, eventually everyone does.

COLORADO TEEN LEFT FOR DEAD IN HATE-FUELED CRIME

The articles were painful to read. They threw around terms like _gang rape_ and _homophobia_ and _attempted murder_. I don't know why I insisted on reading them. My parents took away the newspapers, so I just took to the internet. The comment section was bad. Some people just said I deserved it for being a faggot, but I don't think I deserved it. I'm a good person. I've never hurt anyone before.

I was found by a Carl Denkins – the old dairy farmer who lives on the outskirts of town. It happened on his property and he eventually heard screaming, though he was too late. He came out with a gun but all he found was me – naked and only half-conscious lying near the edge of his hay field. I was covered in blood, cum, my own piss. That's what happens when you're truly terrified – you lose control of your bladder. People tend to forget that or they just gloss over it.

I wanted to fucking die, but Denkins gave me his coat and said I'd be all right. Crock of shit. He probably didn't know what else to say. No one ever does.

He didn't ask me any questions. I think he knew what happened. There wasn't much to piece together. So, he drove me to the hospital and he stayed even after I was awake. Sometimes I see him around and he always looks so damn sad when he sees me. He says hi. I say hi. I know he wants to say more than that, but I'm quick to exit because I can't fucking bear to talk about it on most days.

But someday I'll thank him for saving my life. Maybe when I begin to actually value my life again.

It's thanks to him I'm alive. For a while, I spited him for it. I just wanted to fucking die. But I didn't and I had to learn to live with myself. They didn't expect me to live. Perhaps they would have gotten away with it if I died.

They were all seniors, so they ended up in prison.

The trial was probably about as bad as the crime itself. I had to relive it in front of a room full of people – my friends, my parents, a bunch of cranky looking old people who didn't look at all sympathetic to my plight.

I hated that. I fucking hated it and it made me so angry that I just sounded numb while I talked about how they fucked me into the ground, broke my bones and beat me senseless.

Fortunately it got people thinking. It's been two years since then. Now _I'm_ a senior. I was home schooled for a while after the accident, but I came back for my final year. Now it's almost over. People don't give me shit anymore. People tend to leave me alone. It sucks knowing everyone knows what happened to me, but I've learned to get out of bed. I still do therapy. I became so desensitized after it happened. When the shock and misery of it all wore off I just grew numb, hardly reacting to anything. It was the only way I could cope with something so fucked up happening to me.

I think I'm a little bit better now, but I still have a lot of hard days. My good days are few and far between, so I just try to keep myself distracted.

My friends try to treat me the same way, but sometimes I think they falter. My sister is the worst, though. She's too nice and too cautious and too protective. I almost miss the days when she'd make my life a living hell. At least then I knew things were normal. Now nothing is quite normal.

I still drink too much, but I avoid parties. I just like to stay safe in the confines of my own bedroom. I'm trying to sober up, but I keep relapsing

I always overdo it. I threw up last night and when I throw up I cry and when I cry my parents force me to spend family time with them. It's because they're scared I'm going to kill myself. I'm not. I wouldn't. I've never tried and I'm never going to. I don't really want to die. I just want to be happy again.

Now it's morning and I have a hangover just in time for school.

Great.

I don't bother changing out of my pyjamas. I roll out of bed, grab my things, put on my boots and coat and then leave. I don't bother announcing it since no one is home. By now, my parents are at work and Shelly is probably still asleep. She works nights at Skeeter's Bar and Cocktails. My dad is a geologist and my mom is a receptionist at Tom's Rhinoplasty (yep, the plastic surgery place).

 _Everyone_ has jobs.

Kyle does computer programming, even though he's still only eighteen. Cartman works in a call center. Craig works at the animal shelter. Wendy works in a daycare. Kenny works at the supermarket as a cashier. At night, he does other things. I try not to think about it because I don't understand it and it just makes me feel kind of sad for him… but I know it's not my place to say anything.

I don't work. I don't think I can at this point in my life, even if I wanted to. I have no focus and I don't work well with others. The littlest things set me off and I can't handle being around people I'm not a hundred percent compatible with.

After a brief walk, I spot Kyle. He starts smiling when he spots me. I don't know how he does it. Nonetheless, I smile back. "Hey," I greet once I'm standing in front of him.

Truthfully, I like Kyle a lot. He knows it and maybe he feels the same way, but neither of us is ready to make the transition from best friends to boyfriends. Still, he treats me like I'm the most important thing in his life even when he has so much going for him. He plays basketball and he plays football and he runs. He's taking advanced math, advanced chemistry, physics. His schedule is full and he manages to keep a 4.0 grade average. The SATs were last year. He got the highest score in South Park. All of this and he still finds time for me. I don't know how he does it. I can barely manage to roll out of bed most mornings.

Kyle sleeps around a lot. It's easy for him since he's popular and attractive. He grew into his looks, particularly the features he used to be insecure about – like his nose and his hair. I like those things about him. I like everything about him. He's slender, but not in a scrawny way. He's strong, with hidden muscle. I can't count the amount of times he's effortlessly carried me home in the past after a night of drinking. He has a nice jaw. Is that a weird thing to notice about someone? Well, I like his jaw. I like his entire face. I like his bushy eyebrows, his lips, his boyish smile, his green eyes. Everyone else seems to notice these things, too. Kyle has probably slept with more people than Kenny has and certainly more than Cartman. Cartman, while he's not a virgin, he gets nowhere near as much action as guys like Kenny and Kyle and Clyde. It's because they're all athletic and popular and attractive. Technically, I've never slept with anyone before – not consensually, at least. Me and Wendy never got that far in our relationship…

Kyle mainly sticks to girls, but I know he's done it with some guys, too. No one I know, just strangers from parties in Cherry Creek. It makes me jealous, but I'm nowhere near ready to give him that part of myself.

"How are you?" I ask him as we wait.

"I'm all right," he says. "How are you?"

"All right," I echo him.

Sometimes I think Kyle would try to kill himself again if it weren't for me. If I wasn't so fucked up, then maybe he wouldn't feel the need to stick around. To him, I can do no wrong. The sun shines out of my ass. I'm a saint who deserves no harm.

Soon enough, Kenny and Cartman arrive at the bus stop.

"Jew," Cartman taunts. He tosses an arm around Kyle, who shakes it off a split second later and sneers before shifting away.

"Yes, Cartman, I AM a Jew!" he spits, seething. "And you know what? I'm proud of that, so stop saying it like it's a bad thing, you anti-Semitic piece of shit!"

They still don't get along. It gets tiring. I wish Cartman would just leave Kyle alone. At least their fights are no longer violent. Kyle is pretty tall and pretty strong, but Cartman is still taller and stronger. Plus, he's really wide. He's a linebacker.

Cartman rips Kyle's hat off his head and crams a snowball into his hair.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I'm not really in the mood for Kyle to start shrieking at the top of his lungs. His vocal cords are already messed up enough thanks to Cartman. When we were kids, Sheila made Kyle go to a speech therapist. It didn't do much. Now Kyle's voice is permanently hoarse and raspy. It gets worse when he screams. Sometimes he loses his voice completely.

"Fucking hell!" Kyle hisses, bending over and brushing the snow away.

"The Jew's got a head of hair made for pulling," Cartman says perversely.

Kyle looks ashamed by the lewd comment, but he doesn't respond. Instead, he just grabs his hat back and puts it on.

Cartman is still obsessed with humiliating Kyle. It's something he hasn't quite gotten his fill of – even after the ball-sucking ordeal. Yes, contrary to popular belief, it actually did happen. Cartman loves telling the story to everyone who will listen since Kyle didn't let him make a public spectacle of it.

I let myself zone out and when I zone back in, Cartman is on yet another anti-Semitic tirade.

"Your people are the reason there's war in the Middle East!"

Kyle is rubbing his temples. "Cartman, I'm Ashkenazi, for fuck's sake. My family is from Germany, not Israel."

"There's literally no difference."

"YES, THERE IS! THEY ARE TWO COMPLETELY DIFFERENT COUNTRIES WITH COMPLETELY DIFFERENT HISTORIES!"

Soon enough, the bus pulls up. Me and Kyle grab the first empty seat while Kenny pushes Cartman to the back – far away from us.

* * *

First and second period go by typically. I have English first. Everyone takes English. My second class is Art, though. I took it because I wanted a bird course to fill my election slot. Guys like Kenny and Craig and Jason take art – slacker jocks and stoners. I'm not really either, but I can fit in.

When the bell rings, I meet Kyle at our lockers and we head to the cafeteria.

"What's good?" I ask as we find our usual spot.

"Craig got reading glasses," Kenny says out of the blue.

"HAH!" Cartman cackles. "He's turning into such a fucking nerd! First the braces and now this? I won't be surprised if he starts wearing sweater vests next."

"I wear glasses and sometimes I even wear sweater vests," Kyle points out tartly, sitting next to me. "What are you trying to say?"

"You're a fucking nerd, Kahl. At least you don't have braces."

Frankly I can't imagine Craig in a sweater vest. He always comes to school wearing pajamas or sweatpants tucked into his heavy duty snow boots. With that, he'll usually sport a t-shirt or a baggy sweater riddled with holes under his coat. His family doesn't have much money, but they do better than Kenny's. Kenny has been wearing Kevin's hand-me-downs his entire life. Craig just frequents the thrift store.

I guess I can't really talk, though. My sense of style sucks, too.

"Kyle isn't a nerd," I add my own two cents.

It's true. He doesn't look like one. He just dresses like he goes to private school most of the time.

"Yeah!" Kenny agrees. "Plus, they don't let nerds on the football team."

Speak of the devil. Craig saunters into the cafeteria a minute later. He looks out of it as he sits with his usual crew – Bebe, Token, Nicole, Kevin, Red and Jason. His wire-rimmed glasses are sitting low on his nose (kind of like an old man) and it doesn't take a genius to realize he'd rather not be wearing them.

"He's cute," Kenny says offhandedly before glancing at us. "Isn't Craig cute?" he asks, searching for our opinions.

"I guess so," I say while Kyle just shrugs.

"Fag," Cartman mutters.

Kenny sighs. "He's, like, really cute and it makes me want to know what he'd look like giving a blowjob."

I press my palm over my face. "Dude… that's an awful thing to say."

Cartman smirks at that, digging out his phone. "I can show you, if you want."

I raise an eyebrow at that before swiftly changing the subject. "Any other news?" I ask, grabbing Cartman's phone from him and turning it off before handing it back.

"My boss keeps smacking my ass," Kenny says suddenly.

I raise an eyebrow. "Um… why?"

"I dunno," Kenny sighs. "I guess I'm just that irresistible."

"Dude, that's not okay, though…" I remind him.

"Maybe he knows I'm a hooker by night and that cashier is just my day job." He shrugs, not seeming to care all that much. He probably doesn't. Kenny is like that. It takes a lot to really bring a reaction out of him. I guess he's been desensitized throughout the years by all the fucked up shit that seems to keep happening to him. I can kind of relate.

I wince at that. "Maybe…"

"Aw, don't look so upset," he says, reaching over and patting my shoulder. "A job is a job. My night job just pays a little more."

Cartman doesn't say anything. He just eats his sandwich. I think he's bored of teasing Kenny about it because he never gets the reaction he wants.

"You better be playing safe," is all Kyle adds. "This is a small town, but STDs still exist."

"Don't worry, I'm careful," Kenny says with a wink.

"You have other talents," I point out.

Kenny is very artistic. He can sing and dance and draw and paint and write. He can do it all, but he chooses to do this instead. I don't really get it. I wonder if it makes him happy.

"Nothing I can make money with," he argues. "Hustling is quick money."

"Is it worth all the risks?" I wonder.

Without hesitance he just shrugs, not bothering to contemplate it.

* * *

After lunch is math. Yuck. I take remedial math with Kenny and the other slackers. Kyle takes advanced math, naturally. He has people like Wendy and Nichole and Token in his class. Even fucking Craig Tucker takes advanced math. I think he's secretly probably very smart but just doesn't want people to figure it out or they'll start pushing him to do better.

My last class of the day is my free period. Usually I go to the library and read with Kyle, but I can't find him. So, instead, I decide to go look for him.

There are a few places I know I'll likely find him. First, there's the pit. The pit is a large ditch on the side of the school where kids go to smoke. Second, there's the cement stairway behind the school. It's another place kids go to smoke. Third, the third floor bathroom. If it's a particularly cold day, Kyle will take the risk and smoke inside. He hasn't been caught yet.

So, I begin to look and I end up finding Kyle in the back of the school smoking with Craig. It's always weird to see them together. I wouldn't call them close friends, but they get along. This is the only reason I know about Craig's shroom trip last summer. Apparently they really fucked with his head and he hasn't quite recovered from it. He's been stuck in a constant state of dissociation and anxiety and existential grief since then. Now he hardly goes to class because he can't focus and things don't feel the way they should. Kyle says that Craig was probably prone to mental issues before it happened and the drugs probably made them explode in his face. I thought that sounded pretty fucking depressing.

Before that, he was pretty normal. Emotionally stifled, but normal. Well, maybe a little bit small. He's always been very thin, but I remember when we were fifteen he just looked sick. He never smiles, either.

Craig has a ring through his septum, which I find kinda unique, but apart from that he looks exceedingly normal with the way he dresses. He always has on sweatpants or pyjama pants and they're always tucked into his boots. Rarely jeans. Never khakis. He wears shirts with holes and oversized sweaters. He's probably above average in his appearance, style aside. At least, everyone seems to think so. He has thick, black hair that he keeps combed. He's fair skinned and has a nice complexion, completely unblemished apart from a little mole below his eye. His eyes are big and blue. Sounds nice, right? I guess I can't disagree, though he is far from my type. I like guys who are bigger than me and Craig is about my height.

Whenever I think about Craig, one memory in particular always springs to mind. It was when some redneck shot his cat. He was pretty upset about it. He even cried. It was weird to see. It was the first time I saw him cry, even though I've known him since grade one. He's not a crier and that made seeing it that much worse.

It happened two years ago in the start of summer. We were all hanging out on the street in the afternoon playing street hockey. The puck landed in a ditch in front of the Tucker house and that's when Clyde went to fetch it. He immediately started freaking out. In the ditch, he found more than the puck. He found Craig's little cat, who didn't come home the night before. He called Craig over and Craig clasped his hands over his mouth and it looked like his heart snapped in half. He just said, "Oh, no!" and then started bawling. After that we all gathered around to see what they were staring at.

I guess there's no proof, but Craig says he knows it was the redneck that lives across the street from him. Apparently he was arrested for animal abuse before, so it isn't entirely surprising. It's still sad, though. All the kids crowded to see the little dead cat with a bullet in its side and Craig just kept crying until his mom heard and stepped out. Clyde went into the ditch and picked up the cat. Craig buried it in his backyard and his mom took him to get a new cat a few weeks later when he wasn't so sad about the old one.

He took the bad mushrooms one year later and now he's like a total zombie. Apparently these bad trips can take years to come out of. I don't really know when he'll come out of his.

I call, "Hey!" and descend the stairs. Kyle holds up a hand and waves at me while Craig simply stares. He doesn't really talk to people unless they are speaking directly to him… and sometimes, not even then.

When I get close enough, I nod my head at him.

"Marsh," he murmurs in that deep, nasally baritone. Most people think his voice doesn't suit him since he's got a soft look about him. His voice is hard, deep and cold.

"Tucker," I respond, mimicking his aloof tone. He doesn't seem to catch it.

After a few more puffs of the joint, he hands it over to Kyle and then goes inside without another word.

"Want?" Kyle offers it to me.

I shake my head, declining. I don't want to get into drugs. I know that if I do, then I'd probably create a mess and never get out of it. It's bad enough that I drink. I don't need to worsen my bad habits by adding to them.

Kyle is the opposite of me. He doesn't drink much, but he smokes a lot of weed and sometimes he does harder stuff like coke. I sometimes think that's far worse than alcohol. If he got caught with coke, his future would probably go down the drain. Then again, maybe that's what he wants.

For a while, we're both quiet. I watch Kyle smoke. He tries to blow away from me, but the wind keeps sweeping back and forth and it gets in my face anyway. I close my eyes, never minding the smell because it always reminds me of Kyle. There are scents that I can't help but associate with Kyle. Spearmint, like his breath before bed. Strawberry, like his shampoo. Marijuana and cigarettes, like the things he smokes. Then he also has a very distinct scent that I can't quite describe, but it's unequivocally and completely Kyle. It's just the way he smells. It's the scent he carries with him. I feel like I could get lost in that alone.

"What are you thinking about?" Kyle asks me out of the blue.

I shrug my shoulders. "Just stuff."

"You never talk about it," Kyle mentions.

I roll my eyes, knowing exactly what he's referring to. "Everyone knows all the details. The papers were kind enough to highlight it all… A bunch of seniors took me out into a field and they beat me and took turns raping me."

Kyle winces at the harsh word and I swear he's more sensitive about it than I am sometimes. "But none of that came from you…" he says quietly. "If you ever want to talk about it, I'll listen."

"There's not much else to say," I tell him.

"You can talk about how you feel," he offers.

I force a laugh and it comes out sounding particularly dull and dead. "My feelings…" I murmur thoughtfully. "Well, I feel like shit all the time and I wanna fucking die, but not _really_. I don't like talking about it…"

Kyle nods his head, listening. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell me I have _so much to live for_ and that my death would _make people sad_. He just listens. That's what I like the most about talking to Kyle. He doesn't say all the stupid, pointless things that most other people would say. He doesn't try so hard to help because he understands that I'm not looking for advice. If I was, I'd ask.

"I'm depressed as shit," I add bitterly, "but at least I'm not out trying to make it all worse. The pills help, as much as I hate to credit them. I'm on a high dose. How does someone truly move on from something that bad? Some people would argue that it's just not possible and it'll follow me around 'til the day I die."

The worst part was the things they were saying to me as they did it. I think it would have been easier if they were just… quiet… but they weren't and they laughed and the things they said hurt as much as the things they were doing to me. When I look at myself, sometimes I can't help but think about the things they said.

One of my eyes was swollen shut, one of my arms was broken as well as a handful of fingers, my lip was split, my entire body was bruised, I was covered in lacerations and I had internal tearing. Carl Denkins drove me to the hospital while I bled and cried all over his car seat.

My parents were out of town because my dad was presenting research at a conference in New York. They were called back early. My dad never got to do his presentation. I felt bad, but he kept telling me not to think about it and that I was far more important.

I had a lot of visitors. Too many. My mom was crying a lot. So was I, but after the first few days passed I stopped. I haven't really cried about it since, though I still find plenty of time to cry about other things.

Two years later and I still have scars. I'm not just speaking metaphorically – I literally have scars all over my body. Looking at them depresses me even more. I can't really look at my body or look in a mirror without it being a constant reminder. There are some on my arms and legs and back and a few on my face, too. They're faint, but they're there.

I wish I could be stronger about it. I wish I didn't have to cope by distancing myself. I wish I could face it and cope properly instead of avoiding everything that reminds me of it. Then maybe I could open up to Kyle. I could be with him and it'd be normal. We'd just be yet another couple.

"Maybe," Kyle relents, not bothering to sugar-coat things for my benefit. "I think it's up to you and I don't think that either possibility makes you weak. Your experiences are entirely your own and no one else has the right to tell you how you should feel and how you should cope now or as the time goes by."

I smile at that, though it probably looks bitter as hell. "Yeah, I think so."

When Kyle finally does talk, he always says the right thing.

"Hey, how'd yah get so wise?" I ask him.

He chuckles. "I don't know," he admits. "Experience, I guess? Or maybe I'm just an idiot who doesn't know what the hell he's talking about half the time. Maybe I just like to pretend I do."

"Either way, you always make me feel better," I say.

"Then my job is done," he responds, smiling.

When he's finished the joint, he throws it in a snow bank and we decide to leave school early.

We head to my house since it's closest. Kyle lives in Cherry Creek. His parents wanted an upgrade. They do pretty well financially. Gerald is a big time lawyer. Sheila is always busy with fundraising and charity work. They kind of neglect Kyle and Ike, though they don't mean to.

When we get home, we're alone. Everyone is probably at work. So, we head kick off our boots and hang up our coats.

"Want a drink?" I ask Kyle.

"You mean non-alcoholic, right?" he responds.

I give him a dull look. "Yes, ass."

His lips quirk upward. "Water is fine."

I nod my head and he sits in the living room while I move into the kitchen. I fetch two glasses of water and then I sit down beside him. He's scrolling through Netflix.

He finally settles on _Pulp Fiction_.

"Tarantino is overrated," I tell him.

He snickers, finally grabbing his glass of water out of my hand. "A little. I've never seen this movie, though."

"Me neither," I confess.

We're always bad at watching movies. Usually we both talk too much to understand what's going on, but now is different. We're both quiet. Maybe he's just in a mood.

He raises the glass to his lips and his shirt sleeve rides up, exposing his wrist. I stare at the thick scars before glancing away.

"Kyle?" I say his name in a questioning tone.

"Hm?" he mumbles offhandedly, looking like he's paying very little attention to me.

"Would you ever try to kill yourself again?"

He turns his head to look at me. "Probably not. It didn't work the first time and I felt stupid enough after I woke up in the hospital and realized it was a failed attempt. Razors just don't do the trick. Lesson learned."

I frown at how nonchalant he's speaking about something so fucking saddening. "You should go to a doctor."

He lets out a sigh. "I never told you, but I did. My parents made me see a therapist after the _accident_."

That's what his parents call it. An accident. Why? Because they can't face the possibility that their son actually wanted to die. It is so fucking stupid, though. How could Kyle have accidentally pressed down deep enough to lose that much blood? Ha.

"What did the doctor say?" I pry.

"He said it's dysthymia," he starts, "or… _neurotic_ depression."

"What's that?" I ask. I never even heard the term before.

"Chronic low moods," he explains simply, though I'm sure it's anything but. "The doctor said it's likely because of my perfectionism… which is likely because of my parents. Cliché, huh?" He smiles faintly, shrugging his shoulders.

"There's nothing cliché about struggling," I tell him, empathizing.

"If I'm unable to reach my goal and achieve what I perceive as perfection, then my mood goes downhill," he adds. "I'm really hard on myself and almost never satisfied with my work."

I frown. "Why didn't you tell me all of this sooner?"

"Well, you were struggling… and I didn't really think that my problem compared to yours. Mine seems… so small."

I let out a long sigh. "That's fucked up, dude," I tell him. "You're not supposed to compare problems. That's like comparing oppression. I'm gay and you're a Jew. We've both been shit on for it, but who has it worse? No. It's not something you compare. It's stupid and pointless. There's literally no comparison when it comes to this shit because all experiences are different, historically and personally."

He smiles faintly. "Yeah, I guess not.

We fall into another silence, just in time for a fucked up on-screen rape scene.

"Shit!" Kyle dives for the remote, turning the television. For a few seconds, he remains perfectly still. When he moves, he glances at me and lets out a breath. "I'm sorry…"

I force a laugh, wishing away the knot in my chest. "S'fine, Kyle… You didn't know."

He's frowning and his eyebrows are drawn together.

"Really, dude, it's fine," I tell him again. "I can handle it."

He smiles at me meekly and says, "You're strong. I don't know how I'd handle going through what you went through. How do you do it?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I just try to think about other things. I try to think about things that make me happy… but sometimes it doesn't work and none of my usual hobbies are stimulating enough."

"Then what do you do?" he pries.

"Sleep," I admit.

"You sleep a lot," he points out.

"Exactly," I murmur. "I guess I'm having a rough go of it lately."

"Come to me when you feel bad," he says.

I force a smile and tell him, "Deal… and you do that, too, okay?"

He smiles back. "Okay."

* * *

Later on when Kyle is gone I get ready to take a shower. I always take long showers, which is why my parents make me take them at night. If I take them in the morning, I waste the hot water and everyone needs to take cold showers before work. Then I feel guilty.

After an hour goes by, I step out of the shower and dry off, wrapping a towel around my waist before running across the hall. I lock my door and drop the towel in my laundry basket. I stand naked in front of the mirror and I feel fucking sick to my stomach.

I turn around and stare at the reflection of my back. That's where the worst scars are. They're still clear as day. Shaking it off, I turn back around.

I push the damp hair out of my face, staring critically at my features. I'm very conventional looking. I'm white as hell, though my skin is less peachy and more tanned, kinda like Kenny. I've got blue eyes, black hair, a small nose. I'm slim and kind of short for a guy. I think I'm cute enough and I used to be so confident in the way I looked, but that changed. Now I can hardly stand to look at myself, especially not like this. I just start to shake. I feel too shameful.

I don't want it to be like his. I want to be able to connect with someone – with Kyle. Someday. It just seems impossible at this point. I don't really know how to make it better.

I wish I was a virgin. Kyle told me that virginity is a social construct and it's whatever you make it out to be. So, if I wanted, I could decide that I'm still a virgin… but I can't do that. I can't do it because everyone already knows I've been fucked. Multiple times. Everyone thinks virginity is some form of experience where you're penetrating or being penetrated and technically I've already been through that, even though it was against my will. Kyle says that rape isn't sex. Wendy has told me the very same thing. While I'd like to agree, it's hard. I couldn't really pretend otherwise when I was literally getting penetrated by a bunch of dicks. I can't really make up a new definition for myself. If someone was to ask me about how I lost my virginity, I could just hand them a news article. Maybe it'd be easier to pretend if no one knew, or if it only happened once… but it didn't. People would probably understand why I wanted to say I'm a virgin, but they'd also probably have questions. " _But weren't you that kid who got fucked a bunch of times_?" Yeah, that's me.

I move towards my dresser, opening the first drawer and pulling out sleep pants and an old t-shirt that used to belong to Kyle. Me and Kenny get most of his hand-me-downs because him and Ike were too far apart. By the time Kyle outgrew something, Ike would still be too small for it and by the time he wasn't, they were the same height.

Kyle says he likes seeing us wear his old things because it makes him feel closer to us. I like wearing his clothes for that same reason. I feel closer to him and it's a comfort when he isn't around.

* * *

At school the following morning, I spot a weird exchange between Craig and Jason. They argue a lot. I'm not entirely sure why because they used to be really close. I guess something happened to change that, though.

Craig reaches for a textbook on the top shelf of his locker and it grabs the attention of Jason whose locker is just a few down from Craig's. "Jesus Christ!" he exclaims as Craig's shirt rides up. He grabs the edge, pulling it up even further to expose his jutting hip bones. "Eat a fucking burger, Craig," he says.

"I'm naturally thin, asshole," Craig retorts, slapping Jason's hand away from him before walking off. He heads my way and I pretend to mind my own business.

"Dude, don't say shit like that to him," I hear Clyde murmur to Jason. "You _know_ he used to have eating problems." After that, he chases after Craig, putting a hand on his shoulder when he catches up with him. "Are you okay?"

"No," he bites out as they walk past me. "I _hate_ people who say shit like that!"

The two of them continue walking off and I feel like I overheard something I shouldn't have.

This is what happens when you're quiet – you learn things, you see things. I know lots of secrets about lots of people. Somehow, I think it's fair. Everyone knows my secret, after all. Besides, I'm not about to start sharing the things I learn to the world. I don't judge, either.

But sometimes I have a hard time minding my own business.

* * *

During free period, I see Craig in the hallway putting his things back in his locker. He's alone, so I decide to approach him.

"Hey," I greet him.

He glances at me and nods before closing his locker door.

"I heard what Jason said to you earlier," I point out. "Then I heard what Clyde responded with. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, I was just nearby."

He stares at me, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you-" I cut myself off, unsure how to word it sensitively. I press my lips together for a moment, contemplating what to say and how to say it.

He lets out a sigh. "Just say it, Marsh."

"Do you have an _eating disorder_?" I ask, whispering it.

Craig wrinkles his nose and glances to the side. "You know, you shouldn't go around asking people shit like that."

"Sorry," I apologize. "I didn't really know how else to ask it."

"Then maybe you shouldn't."

"I'm nosy," I admit. "Besides, you told me to."

He lets out another sigh. "Well, yeah, I had an eating disorder. It's not really a secret, but people tend to forget it happens to guys, too… and sometimes it's not about compulsively working out. For me… I just wouldn't eat much at all… but I'm better now. Well, better is the wrong word… I guess I'm recovering. Recovering is a better word for it."

I frown, nodding my head. "Are you okay?"

"Usually," he says with a shrug. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Sometimes," I respond with a bitter laugh.

"Everyone worries I'll relapse," he murmurs offhandedly. "Sometimes I think I will when I'm no longer experiencing the after effects of my bad trip. I mean, it can't last forever… Honestly, I can feel myself coming out of it slowly and that scares me."

"Are you okay right this second?" I ask him.

"I am now," he murmurs. "I mean, as okay as I can be. It'll _always_ be in my head, though… whether it's in the back or the front. Still, as weird as it sounds, it got a little easier after my drug trip. 'Cause now I don't feel much of anything. I'm so numb… and I prefer it. I still struggle with certain things, but it makes things easier. I know that's fucked up, but it's true. _Everything_ is easier like this."

"I'm sorry," I sympathize.

He just shrugs, trying to look like he doesn't care. I don't want to assume, but he probably does care at least a little bit. After a second, he pulls out a package of cigarettes. "Anyway," he starts, taking one out and holding it up. "I'm gonna head out."

I smile and nod at him as he walks away.

I really need to learn to mind my own business.


	2. More things to worry about

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **Yah girl got laid off and wants to die :)**

* * *

Ever since then, I've been seeing Craig around a lot more and we've been talking. He's been surprisingly open. I guess he isn't as cruel as people say he is. Then again, maybe his drug trip just turned him more permissive.

Towards the end of the month, Kyle gets sick and Kenny gets in deep shit because the school finds out he's a hooker. There isn't much they can do since he's eighteen and his parents don't give a rat's ass. They could hand him over to the cops, but they have no concrete proof to the rumours. They do make him see the school's guidance counsellor, but I'm sure all he's doing is sitting with his arms crossed.

When he leaves the office, he has his hands in his pockets. He doesn't look too thrilled.

"What now?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "I'm probably just going to drop out."

"But we're halfway through senior year," I remind him. "Don't drop out. Just finish the year. You may as well, right?"

He wrinkles his nose and shrugs again. "I dunno if it's worth it, dude. Either way, you can't get much with just a high school degree. They up credentials. All the companies want to see university degrees and, let's be real, I'll never have one of those… So, honestly, I don't think it even matters if I quit now."

I guess he's right about that. "Well," I start, "who do you think told the school on you?"

"Probably Eric," he snorts. He doesn't seem angry about the whole ordeal. It takes a lot to get Kenny angry. He's a pretty calm, reasonable guy. He takes most things in life as a joke, even the sad stuff. "They called my parents… which fucking sucks. My dad is probably gonna punch me in the face when I get home."

I wince at that. "Oh… Well, you can stay at my house for a while. You're always welcome."

"Thanks, but I should just face the music and not prevent the inevitable," he says.

I don't bother arguing with him.

On our way out of the school, we swing by the detention room to grab Cartman and then we walk to Kyle's house. Kenny doesn't bother asking Cartman if it was him who spread the rumour. He probably knows and just doesn't care enough to stir the pot.

It takes us a while to arrive at Kyle's house since he lives in a richer area.

Sheila lets us in and tells us Kyle is in his room. As we pile upstairs, I can't help but remember how sick Kyle would get when we were kids. There were times I'd hardly believe him because it happened so often. I remember when I kept telling people he was lying but then he ended up needing a new kidney because he's diabetic. I still feel bad about that, but I smartened up when I realized how severe the situation is. It took a lot of begging, but Cartman relented and gave Kyle one of his kidneys. I thought that would help fix the bad blood between then… and maybe, for a while, it did… but it didn't last. It never does.

I push open Kyle's bedroom door and he's sitting on his bed looking totally miserable. "Hi, guys," he greets weakly. There's a mop bucket sitting between his legs and he's hovering over it.

"You look and sound pathetic," Cartman adds, giving his two cents.

"I feel it," Kyle whimpers. A split second later he seizes up and shoves his face into the bucket, throwing up. Part of me wonders if he really does have the flu or if he's just hung over again.

"Ew," Cartman mutters, turning his nose away. A split second later, a smile spreads across his face. He takes his cellphone out of his pocket and all I hear is _click_. Kyle doesn't seem to notice.

"Asshole!" I growl at him. "Don't take photos of Kyle puking!"

"Chill," Cartman says. "I have all kinds of fun pictures and videos on my phone. Wanna see?"

"No!" Kyle snaps, raising his head. There's puke on his chin. It's not a pretty sight. Cartman takes another picture and laughs.

"Anyway," he says, scrolling through his album. "I have one of Craig sucking some senior's dick near the bleachers. I was gonna show you guys the other day, but Stan got all bothered."

I let out a long sigh and Kenny's jaw drops to the floor. "Are you joking?" he asks in a deadpan. "Delete it!"

Cartman shakes his head. "It's going to go in my book of blackmail photos."

"You're… really evil," I tell him before joining Kyle on the bed and saying, "Is it a stomach bug?"

"Feels like it," he says. There's still puke on his chin and it smells pretty potent, but I don't mind. It's just bile. Nothing about him grosses me out.

Kenny sits at the chair in front of Kyle's desk while Cartman paces around the room, sifting through Kyle's things. Kyle doesn't bother telling him to stop. He just watches, frowning.

"So, I decided I'm gonna try and bed Craig," Kenny starts.

I refrain from rolling my eyes.

We continue to listen to Kenny talk about his plan to court Craig. I don't know if he's joking around or not. Kyle pukes a little more. I clean the bucket out when he's done. Cartman gets bored and goes home. Kenny follows a few minutes later, but he wishes Kyle well before disappearing. Now it's just me and him.

"I feel like shit," he moans.

"It'll pass," I tell him gently.

* * *

The next day, I walk home with Craig instead of taking the bus. I decide to ask him about Jason in an attempt to test the waters and see how much he's willing to talk to me.

"I hate him most of the time," Craig mutters offhandedly. "Jason, that is… He's an asshole."

"Why?" I pry.

"It started when I went camping with him and some others a couple years ago in the summer," he starts flatly. "We all got pretty drunk and Jason took my clothes and tied me to a tree. He told everyone I went home and in the morning I was left for the hunters to find. I wanted to fucking die."

"Shit," I whisper. "I guess that's more than just. I'd hate him, too."

"He also once switched all the names and numbers on my cellphone a few years ago," Craig starts. "I ended up sending a picture of my ass to my dad."

My jaw drops and before I can help it I start to laugh.

"It's not funny," he says. "I was fucking mortified. He called me and freaked out, demanding to know who I was trying to send nudes to."

I stifle a smile and say, "Sorry, dude, that really sucks."

Craig sighs. "I know I have this reputation for being a huge slut, but I'm actually not…"

"Who cares?" I say with a shrug. "Nothing wrong with having sex."

"But I'm a virgin," Craig deadpans.

"Oh," I say simply. Somehow, it doesn't surprise me. Craig has never even had a relationship. He's a bit rigid.

In freshmen year, we all used to pull each other's pants down. I don't fucking know why. Boys are idiots. I remember Cartman did it to Craig once in the hallway and he had a fucking fit. He was standing in front of his locker, completely oblivious to what Cartman was about to do. Since he had sweatpants on, they came down easily. A teacher ended up being in the hallway when Craig's pants were below his ass cheeks. Cartman got expelled.

I think that's how the man-whore rumour started, though… because Craig wasn't wearing any underwear. I guess that's pretty stupid, but people like to talk, especially around here. I don't put stock into anything I hear in the halls.

"Cartman has a picture of you giving head," I decide to confess.

"Fuck!" Craig lets out a sigh. "That voyeuristic asshole… It was _one_ time. Experimental. Plus, that was before the braces…" He wrinkles his nose.

"They don't look bad," I tell him. "Besides, Kenny used to have braces and he still sucked dick the entire time…"

Craig just shrugs. "Anyway, I guess this makes me half a virgin. Whatever."

I smile a small smile. "Nah, dude. If you say you're a virgin, then you're a virgin. Virginity is whatever you make it out to be."

"Do you really believe that?" he asks me.

I snort back a laugh and admit, "No, but I want to. It's just hard."

"Yeah," he agrees. "If I'm going to be honest, most of the hate melted away," he adds offhandedly. "I hid it well, but I used to be a pretty emotional person, believe it or not… Now I just kind of _exist_."

"Yeah," I murmur. "I heard about your drug trip."

"Everyone heard about that," he points out. "I don't know if I miss being able to feel things," he confesses. "Now I have to go to therapy twice a week because my parents are scared I'll kill myself or try to do something dangerous in an attempt to _feel_."

"Shit," I state. "That's really sad… I'm sorry… but I know what that's like. I go to therapy, too. My parents are also worried I'll hurt myself."

He frowns at me and I can tell he doesn't know what to say. "Sorry…"

I just shrug. "Anyway, continue."

"They used to argue a lot, but after I started fucking up like that all their attention turned towards me," he murmurs. He forces a smile, though it's bleak. "A couple years ago I ended up crying in Mr. Mackey's office."

"Why?" I pry, trying to hide my shock. I can't imagine Craig crying in front of an authority figure. He hates authority figures.

"My parents were fighting a _lot_ ," he reveals. "I mean, I'm adopted… I was adopted late, so I always knew it, but I still see them as my parents and it was upsetting. They almost got separated because of it. My dad left for a week, but he came back. They stuck it out for me and Ruby. It ended up being for the best, because it forced them to work through their issues. Now they're closer than ever. Sometimes I think people accept divorce too readily. Sometimes things _can_ be fixed."

I think Craig wants someone to talk to, but no one makes the cut. I guess it means something that I somehow _did_ make the cut.

"Why tell me all of this?" I ask him.

"Because you don't talk about other people," he says. "There's something about you… I don't know. I guess it just makes people want to trust you. I know I don't pay a lot of attention to my surroundings, but you do. Don't think I haven't noticed that much."

I smile at him. "Well, I won't tell."

"I know," he responds simply.

"People talk a lot of shit about you, but if Kyle likes you then clearly there's something special about you," I say. "I guess I wanted to find out what."

"Kyle got drunk and kissed me once," Craig reveals out of the blue. "We were at a party. He pulled back quickly and said it was because I look like you. Then he apologized."

I frown at that. I never really thought about it before, but I suppose we do look alike. We have the same hair color and length, though mine is pin-straight and Craig's is a bit wavier and parted to the side. He's probably only a mere two inches taller than me and perhaps a little more slender. We both have blue eyes and long, dark lashes. He has a freckle below his eye. I have one above my lip. He's a lot paler than me, but I can't deny the rest of the similarities.

Kenny always says that I'm cute and Craig is pretty. It makes me feel childish, but I know he doesn't mean it like that so I just let it slide. He is always mooning over Craig, but Craig hasn't given him the time of day.

"Oh," is all I muster up.

"Don't be mad at him for it," Craig reasons. "I wasn't supposed to tell you, but I feel like I should. He felt pretty stupid about it."

"It's fine," I murmur.

"I probably would have let him do whatever he wanted with me," he admits offhandedly.

"Do you like him?" I wonder.

"No."

"Then why?"

He shrugs. "I'd probably let anyone fuck me if they asked… but no one really asks because they think I'm nuts from doing too many drugs."

"That's kind of sad," I tell him.

He smiles, but it's void of any emotion. "Anyway… Kyle regrets it."

I just shrug. "He doesn't have to regret it. He has no commitment to me. So, it doesn't really matter what he does and who he does it with. I'm sure he's still sleeping around quite a lot. I can't stop him from doing that."

"But you wish you could," Craig finishes my thought.

"Yeah," I confess. "I guess I do… I love him."

"No such thing," Craig says.

An expected response.

"You don't believe in love?" I ask him.

He shakes his head. "It's just science."

"Then, do you believe in God?" I retort. "I see you at church every Sunday. You come alone. Your parents aren't forcing you since they never come. Neither does your sister. So, why?"

He's quiet.

"You believe in God but you don't believe in love?" I question him again. "Why?"

He's still quiet.

"Those are the words of someone who has been hurt," I say.

He starts smiling again. It isn't a happy smile. It's bitter and insincere. For a moment, I think he might say something cruel, but he doesn't. Instead, he just says, "I guess so."

"Tell me about it," I request.

"Why should I?"

"Because I've kept all your secrets," I tell him. "I'll keep this one, too. Besides… I think you need to talk about it."

He scoffs, glancing away. "Things with Jason are a bit more complicated than I make it out to be..."

"How?"

He frowns. "I had a crush on Jason… even though he was a piece of shit to me. Well, it was more than a crush. I thought I was in love with him, or whatever… I guess I was a bit of a sadist to settle for a guy who treated me like shit. So, I told him that and he was fine with it. He even said we could see what it'd be like. So, in secret we tried dating for a while... and he was actually nicer to me. I guess he thought that since we were together, it would be wrong to be a complete douche to me. Anyway, long story short, his dad ended up walking in on us kissing on the bed. He started fucking screaming and I was so sure he was going to beat the shit out of both of us. Before it happened, Jason got defensive, insisting that I made the move. Then he punched me in the face and called me a faggot. Jason came to school the next day all bruised up."

I feel my lips part in shock. "Shit… I'm really sorry."

"I left after that," he finishes simply. "I went to Clyde's house and cried for, like, a million years. I don't talk to him much now. He tries to talk to me sometimes, but it's usually just teasing and taunts. I don't really care what he has to say. I hated him so much for doing that to me, putting me through all that shit."

"Shit," I say again. "Yeah, jeez, no wonder… but do you think it'd be easier for you both to move on if you got closure?"

"I don't know," he confesses. "Sometimes I think that since a lot of that hatred melted away that I'd be able to talk to him if he tried to talk to me… but he won't do that again. He's given up. He hasn't tried to truly talk to me since before I did all those mushrooms. Just an asshole-ish comment here and there"

"Why don't you approach him instead, then?" I suggest.

He just shakes his head and then it's quiet – uncomfortably so – and it makes me feel like I've said the wrong thing. I know how hard it can be to make the first move.

"So, hey, where were you adopted from?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Some orphanage in Denver, but my parents were immigrants from Armenia," he explains. "I was five when I got adopted."

I nod my head. "So, you remember the whole process?"

I continue listening to him talk about his past and his parents and growing up and I feel like I've learned a lot today about Craig Tucker.

* * *

On the weekend, I invite myself over to Kyle's house. I have to take the bus and when I get there, I let myself in using the hide-a-key. Before I even open the door, I hear music. It's loud. Dexy's Midnight Runners.

Closing the door, I follow where it's coming from. Soon enough, I'm in front of Kyle's bedroom. The door is closed. I open it and what I see is enough to make me want to poke my fucking eyes out.

What the fuck?

 _What._

 _The._

 _Fuck._

Kyle is lying on his bed stark-nude, legs spread apart. Between them, Cartman is kneeling. His pants are hiked below his hips and it doesn't take a genius to figure out what they're doing – especially with the sounds Kyle is emitting. His eyes are closed and his arms are tossed carelessly above his head.

It's a side to him I never thought I'd see. It's a side to him I didn't even think existed.

"What the fuck…?" I deadpan weakly, lips parting in shock.

Kyle's head snaps towards me and his eyes go wide. "Fuck!" he shouts. "D-don't look!" He tries to sit up, but Cartman presses a hand to his chest, keeping him still. "C-Cartman, stop!"

Cartman doesn't stop. He doesn't even bother pulling out. He just stares at me and says, "Stan, we're in the middle of something."

My mouth is still open and, in somewhat of a daze, I turn away and walk back down the stairs. I hover in front of the door, debating on leaving, but I don't. I back a few steps away and turn into the living room, sitting on the sofa. I feel myself zone out and the horrible image of Cartman porking Kyle pervades. I don't want to keep seeing it, but it won't go away.

I don't know how long I'm sitting here, but soon enough I hear loud footsteps coming down the stairs. It has to be Cartman. Only he is that heavy.

"Jew's all yours," he says sweetly as he passes me. I don't bother responding or sparing him a glance. A Few minutes later, I hear the door open and close.

For a while, I can't bring myself to move. I should go upstairs and get answers out of Kyle, but I don't even want answers. I just wish none of this was happening.

I force myself to my feet and head upstairs slowly. By now, Kyle is dressed. He has on a long-sleeved grey shirt and plaid pyjama pants. He's sitting on the floor against his bed, knees drawn to his chest. He looks like he's pretty out of it and he isn't staring at anything in particular, though his eyes are wide and wet.

"Kyle…" I say his name.

He doesn't respond. The first tear falls, but he remains perfectly still and silent.

I move closer, sitting down on the floor next to him. I don't really know what to say to make the situation less uncomfortable.

"So, hey… I didn't think you liked 80's music," I bring up. Since he's refusing to talk, I decide to start.

He lets out a scoff, staring down at the floor before stretching his legs out in front of him. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve before finally speaking. "It's Craig's… I mentioned I was looking for new music. He made me a playlist. I was listening to it when… when Cartman came over…" his voice grows weaker, "and I just didn't get a second to turn it off.

I nod my head slowly, trying not to sound as upset as I feel. "So… you and Cartman?"

He's quiet again. He's not even looking at me. I hear him let out a long breath before finally responding with, "No, not me and Cartman."

"Then what the fuck?" I urge.

"Cartman doesn't even like me like that," Kyle mutters. "He doesn't even like men at all… He just hates me and wants to humiliate me. So… he fucks me and he sees that as the ultimate form of domination."

"Why are you letting him do it?" I ask in outrage, trying to hide my revulsion. "That's fucked up."

I can't wrap my head around why Kyle would let something like this happen.

I sit with him quietly and wait for him to talk, not pushing for him to hurry up.

"He… he has something on me," Kyle confesses. "He knows something I don't want anyone else to know because if it gets out I'll get in serious shit…"

"What is it…?" I ask, wondering how serious it is.

He lets out a shuddery sigh. "You know how I got a 2200 on my SATs?" I nod my head and he adds, "Well, I cheated and Cartman knows it."

"Kyle…" I murmur his name, trying to hide how fucking shocked I am. "You're one of the smartest kids in school if not _the_ smartest… I bet you could have gotten that score even without cheating… So, why did you?"

"I felt pressured," he whispers. "Like, there was no room for possible failure."

Kyle's parents have big plans for his future. They initially wanted him to attend an ivy league school like Yale of Harvard, but Kyle didn't want to be so far away. So, he settled on the University of Colorado Boulder. That means he'll only be a two hour drive from me. He can come back on weekends. That will be enough for me. I'm just glad he's not going to be out of the state or out of my reach.

"So… how will it end?" I ask him. "Will you have to do this forever?"

"Probably just until Cartman gets tired of it," he mutters. "Who the fuck knows when that's gonna be… He's following me to Boulder next year."

"It's not fair," I whisper.

"Mm…" he mumbles in vague agreement. He reaches a hand up and swipes away another tear. It's weird to see him cry. It's the first time I've seen him cry in years. He's not a crier like I am. People used to tell me I was too oversensitive. Now they wouldn't dare say a thing like that.

"Kyle –" I start, but he cuts me off by letting out a loud and rather sudden sob.

"I don't want to keep doing this," he says, voice breaking.

I latch onto one of his arms and put my head against his shoulder. "I know," I sympathize.

* * *

I feel overwhelmed lately – overwhelmed not by my own life but by the lives of the people I'm surrounded by. For once, my own problems are barely entering my mind.

I want to help Craig and I want to help Kyle and I want to help Kenny, but there isn't really a damn thing I can do for any of them. Plus, maybe I have no right to insert myself into situations I have no business being in.

Nonetheless…

"You used to be friends with Craig, right?" I ask, calling out Jason during my free period. I find him in the school's gym, lifting weights. Typical.

He stops and sits up, glancing at me after setting the barbells down. I feel like if I was any other person, he'd either shove me, say something rude or just walk away. But since I'm locally famous victim Stanley Marsh, he does neither. "What of it?"

"Why aren't you friends now?" I ask.

He scoffs. "I'm betting you already know the answer to that. I've seen you hanging around him lately. He probably told you what I did. He loves telling that story."

I force a weary smile. "Yeah, I guess you're right. He did tell me." A pause. "Do you regret it?"

"What part" he asks. "I did a lot of shit to him. I don't regret the pranks. Those were just jokes."

I don't bother telling him that his sense of humor is warped. Instead, I say, "What about the other thing, then?"

"I punched him because I had to," he murmurs. "If I didn't do what I did, then my dad would've done a lot worse to the both of us. My dad beat the shit out of me, but I knew I could handle it. Craig woulda broke. So, no, I don't regret it."

"Does Craig now that?"

"Probably not."

"Do you miss him?"

"I was never _truly_ attracted to him," Jason says pointedly, staring at me. "I was just curious. I mean, I was young… I didn't know what the fuck I wanted. So, I said we could try and figure it out. I probably would've slept with him if my dad didn't interrupt, though… I mean, I'm comfortable enough with myself that I can admire a good looking guy and Craig is definitely a good looking guy."

"Do you miss him?" I ask again, dismissing his attempt at justification.

He doesn't respond. Instead, almost in a daze, he confesses, "His _eating habits_ got really fucked up afterward. I don't know if I had anything to do with it, but sometimes I feel like I did and it makes me fucking guiltier than I already am… I'm not trynna make it all about me, but I just want him to eat."

"You say all the wrong things," I tell him.

He shrugs. "I don't really get this kind of stuff."

"Talk to him," I insist. "I have a feeling he'd answer this time. He's changed."

"Not of his own will," Jason mutters.

"That may be… but you can take advantage of it," I retort. Maybe that's a shitty way to look at it, but it's true and I think it'd be for the best… though it's not my place to say. Craig hinted at it, though. He said he'd talk to Jason if Jason ever tried to approach him again. Maybe this will change things.

Jason snorts back a laugh. "Huh… maybe. Whatever."

I know it's a stupid idea to make everyone else's problems my own business, but it helps keep me distracted when I'm feeling particularly bad.

Plus, I just want to help people. I want to be everyone's friend because I think everyone needs support and they don't always get it from the people in their lives.

So, with that, I tell Jason I'll see him around and then I continue to the library. Instead of seeing Kyle, I see Wendy.

It's weird seeing Wendy at school after everything she's been through. Then again, I guess people might say the same thing about me.

Everyone found out about her abortion. Apparently someone saw us at the clinic. Well, they're just rumours. Wendy hasn't confirmed anything. Neither have I. So, people can keep assuming whatever they want as long as it never gets back to Wendy's parents. They might have mixed feelings about their daughter having an abortion. Her dad is a bit of a redneck, just like every other person in this town. Her mom is Arab-American and pretty liberal, but I still think the thought of her daughter getting pregnant would be a shock. It's a lot for any parent to handle.

Wendy asked me to go with her. I'm not sure why. Well, that's a lie. I think she still feels close to me. We dated for so long and she says I'm the only guy who never fucked her over. Yeah, there are times when I was shitty, but I never actually tried to be an asshole. I was just a dumb kid.

We talked a lot about it before and after. She was really out of it when she left the hospital. I had to take her home. I stayed with her until she felt like opening up. She said it was invasive and the worst pain of her life. Then she cried. I knew she would. If I was in her position, I know I'd cry, too.

There hasn't been any slut shaming or anything. I know Wendy. I know how smart she is and I know how careful. She told me she was on the pill and she told me that they always used condoms. This time, however, the condom broke and she forgot her pills at home so she couldn't take them on time. I guess that's all it takes. One little, tiny slip-up.

Shit happens.

I don't hang out with Wendy as much as I used to. We broke up, after all. Things were tense after our breakup, but when I was hospitalized she was the first person I saw when I woke up. Not Kyle, not my parents, not my sister… Wendy. Of course everyone else was in the room with her, though. She was hovering over me, saying my name over and over.

It took me a few minutes to piece things together. For a moment, I thought it was all some tragic dream. But it wasn't. Real life sucks. Dreams are always better for that one reason – they're dreams. They're _not_ real life. Even if you tend to dream about shit that sucks, at least there's the comfort of knowing it isn't real. When this happened to me, my dreams were no longer fictitious. I was constantly reliving what went down on that field.

It was a Friday night, so everyone was still up and about. I guess the news of some kid getting gang-raped spread fast. I had a lot of visitors – more than I would have liked. I didn't really want to see anyone, but it seemed that everyone wanted to see me. At first I thought it was just because they wanted to see if the rumours were true, but I like to think most of them cared at least a little bit about me as a person. I'm trying to be more positive and less negative. It comes in waves.

I was in a lot of pain - in and out. I can't believe they even allowed visitors in to see me. The visit consisted of them all watching me cry for about twenty minutes until they got kicked out by Shelly. The hospital called my parents, but since they were going to take a while to get back into town, they called Shelly. She was in rare form that night. I remember her kicking everyone out, physically shoving them out the door.

Then she shut the door and turned to me. She looked really sad. I couldn't maintain eye contact for very long. I just glanced down at my hands and we didn't talk at all. We still don't.

"Hey, Stan," Wendy says, smiling and pulling me back to the present.

"Hey," I echo my greeting.

I think she's okay now.

"Want to sit?" she asks, pointing to the empty seat across from her.

"Sure," I accept with a smile. "I was going to find Kyle, but I don't think he's in here. He's probably having a cigarette with Craig."

But to tell the truth, I think Kyle is just avoiding me out of some sort of shame or humiliation. I guess I can understand that, though I don't think he should feel embarrassed. I'm not judging him.

"Yeah, I hear they hang out," Wendy says.

"They do," I confirm. "I think they mostly just go to parties and stuff, though."

Wendy smiles a funny smile and then nods her head, gesturing behind me. I turn around and see Kyle and Craig saunter into the library. Kyle doesn't bother sparing me a glance. Him and Craig walk right past me without a damn word.

I make an 'o' shape with my mouth, mildly surprised that Kyle would be so damn rude. I get that he's embarrassed, but I'm his best fucking friend!

"Wow…" Wendy murmurs. "What happened between you two?"

I grit my teeth.

Well, I won't stand for that.

I get up and approach Kyle, grabbing his elbow. "What the hell?" I ask him.

He turns around, but he won't look at me. He looks right past me, like he can't bear to make eye contact. "I don't want to talk, Stan," he says wearily.

"To me?" I practically whine.

Then Kyle looks guilty, like he momentarily forgot he's not supposed to treat me like crap. He glances at Craig and says, "I'll catch up with you later." With a nod, Craig walks off and disappears behind a stack of books. When he's far enough away, Kyle whispers, "I'm sorry…"

I shake my head. "It's fine… I'm not judging you or anything, Kyle. I'm not going to make you talk about things you don't want to talk about… but if you ever want to talk, I'll listen. You always support me. I want to support you, too."

"Thanks," he mutters. "I'm mostly just disgusted with myself and it makes it worse that someone else knows, even if it's you… and I know you're not going to think I'm disgusting or anything, I just wish I could've kept it a secret. It'd be easier to pretend it wasn't happening and when it was finally over I could just move on with my life."

"It's hard to do if you're not enjoying it," I tell him.

Kyle flushes and whispers, "Uh…" He pauses and then leans closer, like he's afraid someone will hear. "Sometimes I _like_ it… not him, but the things he does. I just don't want him to know that because I hate him for blackmailing me… I know it's morally fucked up and I should really, really hate it… but physically I don't and that just makes me feel even worse about myself. I feel like I have no self-respect. Cartman took it all away."

I frown, nodding my head. "He's a bad person."

He sighs. "I hate him for that and I wish he'd disappear... I meant it when I said I didn't want to do it anymore. I guess the fact that I DO actually feel pleasure from the whole thing makes it all even more disgusting."

I take his arm and lead him out of the library and into an empty classroom so we have more privacy. I keep the lights off, shutting the door before sitting on a desk in the front of the room.

"What now?" Kyle murmurs.

"Whatever you want," I tell him.

He lets out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. "I don't really want anything… I just want Cartman to fuck off. I deserve better than him."

"Want me to talk to him?" I offer.

Kyle shakes his head. "It wouldn't do any good. Plus, I got myself into this mess… anyway, I don't really want to think about it." He pauses before challenging me with, "Give me a distraction."

"How?" I ask.

He shrugs, sitting on the desk next to the one I'm sitting on. "Tell me three things. Two truths and one lie. I'll guess which is which."

"Hm…" I muse thoughtfully, trying to think of things Kyle might not know. "All right. I watch porn. I lie daily. I was born premature."

"Um… hm… I'm going to guess that you don't watch porn," he says after a moment of contemplation.

"You're right," I respond. I don't even touch myself. I pay the price come morning, but I still can't bring myself to do it. I should probably try, though. It's not convenient to constantly have to be doing the laundry… "I've never watched porn. Do you watch porn?"

"I used to," Kyle confesses, "but I don't really like the idea of getting off to a stranger through a computer screen, so I quit. Plus, too much shady shit goes on in the porn industry, y'know? Anyway, I just kind of let my imagination run wild."

"What do you think about?" I pry, wondering if there is someone or something in particular that gets him going.

He smiles at me slightly. "Just past experiences that I enjoyed."

I nod my head slowly. "Do you ever think about me?" I ask, staring right at him. "I know you like me."

"Yeah, I do like you," he confesses, "and that's why I don't think about you. I don't want you to be part of my fantasies. You didn't consent to me thinking about you like that… So, it wouldn't feel right. I just want you to stay being a part of my reality - no matter what my relationship with you is."

"You can think about me like that if you want," I tell him before I can help myself. I don't know why I say it. I don't want people thinking about me like that, but I wouldn't mind if it was Kyle.

He softens, looking almost sad. "So, you were born premature and you lie a lot?" he asks out of the blue, changing the subject.

"Yeah," I admit. "I had to go in an incubator for a while, but there were no further complications… and, um, yeah… I lie a lot. I don't really know why. It's like second nature to me by now."

Kyle frowns, looking thoughtful. "What kinds of things do you lie about?"

"My feelings, mostly," I start. "People are always asking me how I'm doing, if I'm okay… What the fuck am I supposed to say? What kind of answer do they honestly expect? I know they're just asking to be nice. They don't really want me to start crying to them. They want me to tell them I'm okay because it's easier than having to deal with me. Plus, I guess they probably hope I'm okay just because what happened to me is fucking depressing and it probably makes them uncomfortable…"

"Don't lie to me, okay?" Kyle says. It's not a harsh demand, it sounds more like a hopeful request. "Talk to me when you're having problems."

"I relapsed a little while ago," I confess. "I know I was only sober for a month, but… I was still disappointed in myself."

"Yeah," Kyle says softly. "Did something in particular trigger you to take a drink?"

I pause and try to think back on what happened that night. "I think I just felt down in general… maybe lonely. Sometimes it's like I need to be alone, but then at other times I can't stand it… and I still don't want to have to ask for people to spend time with me. It's like, for some reason, I want people to just know when they should hang around… but that's not realistic. You can't have things without asking for them."

"I understand that," Kyle relates.

"It always seems like you understand me the best," I respond.

"I try to."

We continue talking until the bell rings, telling us free period is over. Me and Kyle walk side-by-side to English class, finding Cartman and Kenny.

Even if Cartman does follow Kyle to Boulder, Kyle won't have to keep doing what he's doing. Cartman might get bored by then… and even if he doesn't, there isn't much he could do. A claim like Kyle cheating on his SATs might not be worth as much when high school is long over.

And truly… I don't think Cartman would ever really tell anyone about it. I think this is all he wants from Kyle. He just wants to humiliate him and make him hate himself.

I wonder if Cartman had anything to do with Kyle's suicide attempt. I'm afraid to even ask.

* * *

Sitting through class and watching Cartman torment Kyle by taking his pencils… Well, it's made me realize something. As me and Kyle leave the classroom, I pull on his sleeve.

"Hm?" he asks, glancing at me.

"I don't even want to be Cartman's friend anymore," I murmur. "I always knew he was shit, but I didn't think he was this bad…"

"You have to be his friend," Kyle says pleadingly. "Otherwise people will want to know why you suddenly can't stand him after years of tolerance."

"Ugh," I groan, knowing he's right. "I honestly don't think I can stand to be around him, Kyle. I'll put on a good face, but I really hate him…"

Kyle smiles slightly but falters a split second later, unable to keep up the facade.

* * *

My therapist asks me about Kyle. She does this a lot because she knows how much I like him.

My therapist is a nice, old lady who is probably in her sixties. She's my fourth therapist. I didn't like my other ones. My first one was a young guy named Dr. Pal who took everything as a joke. I couldn't open up to him at all. My second was a bald guy named Dr. Kats. He didn't seem to care about me as a person. Every time I got upset he'd just slide a tissue box towards me and stay quiet. My third was an old man named Dr. Pinkerton who was a little behind the times. I didn't feel comfortable with him because, even though doctors aren't supposed to judge their patients, I felt like he was judging me for being gay and what happened to me. Maybe he thought it was stereotypical. Maybe he even thought I should have expected it. I don't really know.

I'm lucky to have my current therapist. Her name is Dr. Hightower. She understands me and she specializes in cases like mine. I feel like I can tell her anything. I feel like I can cry and she always says the right things when I do. She doesn't just slide me a box of tissues and wait for me to shut up. She talks to me like an equal and doesn't use her authority to silence me or make me feel like I'm overreacting.

"I learned that Kyle is having sex with Cartman," I tell her.

She gives a long, thoughtful nod. "By what you've told me about them, they seem like a pretty unlikely pair."

"I know," I admit. "I was surprised, but I saw them…"

"How did it make you feel seeing them in that position?" she asks gently.

"Bad," I say, "but Kyle felt worse. He even cried, which was weird 'cause he doesn't really cry. That's me. I'm the big crybaby who has temper tantrums in the hallways at school and shit."

"It's okay to cry," she says. "In fact, it's a good thing. It hurts to keep things bottled up."

"He's being blackmailed," I add. "I don't really know how to help him. Well, I can't help him… and even if I could I don't think he'd want me to. He cheated on a pretty major test and Cartman found out, so…"

"Oh, no," she sympathizes, "and how does Kyle feel about all of this?"

"I think he's really conflicted," I say. "I mean, he says he hates Cartman and knows the situation is morally fucked up… but he also said it felt good. I don't know. I'm worried he'll try to hurt himself again."

"Has he tried to hurt himself again since the first time?" Dr. Hightower asks.

"Not really… but maybe this is a way for him to hurt himself," I contemplate.

"It very well could be," she says.

"Or maybe this is just the reason he tried to die in the first place," I add, shrugging. "I don't really know when they started doing that stuff..." A pause. "I feel jealous…" I confess out of the blue. "I know it's fucked up to feel jealous of someone who is taking advantage of Kyle, but… it's like… I don't want other people to have him."

Dr. Hightower smiles a small smile. "That's because you like him."

"And he likes me…" I add, "but I don't think either of us are ready to do anything about it, so I have no right to even ask him to stop fooling around with people. He's still sleeping around a lot. Sometimes I wonder if something like that can be fulfilling. I guess for some people it might be, but I don't know… I feel like Kyle does it for the wrong reasons."

"What would the right reason be?"

"Because you want to, I guess," I start. "The right reason wouldn't have anything to do with hurting yourself or impressing other people…"

"And why do you think Kyle does it?"

"To hurt himself and impress other people," I finish.

Dr. Hightower scribbles some notes on her clipboard and then she looks up at me and smiles. "You should bring Kyle in with you one of these days. I'd like to meet him."

"I'm allowed to do that?" I ask, surprised.

"Of course!"

I smile slightly, biting on the tip of my thumb. After a moment of contemplation I say, "Okay. Yeah, I want to do that. I'll ask him if he wants to come one of these days."

* * *

After my session, I decide to visit Tweek since I haven't seen him in a few weeks.

Tweek goes to the same therapist as me. I only know this because I saw him shouting at the receptionist last year, pleading to see Dr. Hightower. She popped out of her office when she heard the commotion. My appointment was next, but I said they could have a moment to talk because whatever was going on with him seemed pretty serious.

When I reach his house, I knock on the door. A few seconds later, Tweek opens the door a crack and says, "What?" The unmistakable scent of marijuana and incense greets me along with his suspicious expression.

Tweek's parents grow pot. Tweek has been delving into their stash for years. I guess it helps with his paranoia, though I hear that for a lot of people it does the opposite.

I've never tried it. I don't want to go down that road. My alcohol problem is bad enough as it is. I don't need to make it worse by adding new substances into the mix.

"Uh… hey," I greet him in return. "Want to hang out?"

He looks hesitant, but he slowly opens the door enough to let me slip inside. "Sh," he hushes me, pressing a finger to his lips before whispering, "I think there is a ghost in the house because I keep hearing stuff."

"Oh," is all I say. I don't really like to humour him, but I know there's no point in reasoning with him, either. Instead, I try to distract him. "I was wondering if I could talk to you about something," I start, removing my boots and hanging my coat over the railing.

He waves me into the living room and says, "What's up?"

Tweek is easy to talk to, contrary to popular belief. Those who say otherwise simply don't know him. He's trustworthy, he's kind and he's been through so much, so he's understanding even with the worst things.

He grabs a joint of marijuana sitting in an ashtray on the table and begins smoking it.

"Doesn't that stuff make you more paranoid?" I ask.

"Strangely, no," he says. "It calms me down. It's one of the few things that calms me down."

"What else calms you own?" I wonder.

"Craig makes me calm," he admits.

"Do you like him?" I pry.

Tweek shakes his head. "I don't really like anyone like that. I don't really get attracted to people, sexually. Sure, I've had sex… but it was always meaningless. I'm probably somewhat on the asexual spectrum. I don't like sex that much. I don't really know why I used to insist on having it." A pause. "My relationship with Craig… I just mean… I like him as a friend. Maybe sometimes I get possessive, but he never pushes me away. He understands. He helps me stay grounded when I feel like I'm about to float away. He's calm and clean and tidy. He's all the things I'm not, so he's nice to be around."

I nod and smile. "He's a lot different than I thought he'd be. I think I'm becoming his friend. He talks to me sometimes."

Tweek smiles back, though it's faint. "So, we got side tracked. What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Oh, um…" I start, trailing off. "Have you ever experienced anything really bad that, like, messed you up?"

Tweek muses for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Well, when I was a kid one of my uncles used to touch me. I had to go to therapy for a really long time. Well, I still go, but I don't have to go as much. I think my parents were scared I'd get someone pregnant and repeat the same mistakes with the kid because that's typically how the story goes… but that's not going to happen. I don't want kids and if I did I wouldn't hurt them."

I feel my heart sink. "Why didn't you tell me…?"

The things you learn about the people in your life can be so damn surprising. You really never know what someone is struggling with.

Tweek shrugs. "By the time I started talking about it with ease, you had already been hurt really bad and I guess I just thought that sharing it with you might've been triggering. I didn't wanna upset anyone with it because it's a sensitive topic for most people. No one likes to think about it."

"I'm sorry," I say softly. "Well, you can talk about it now. I mean, if you want to."

He nods his head and responds with, "Thanks… and you can talk, too, if you want. I assume that there's a reason you're asking me about this kind of stuff, huh?"

"I want to be with someone, but I am worried I'll ruin it," I confess quietly. "I only ever dated Wendy and our relationship was kind of juvenile. It wasn't sexual. We just kissed a bit. I know that his time it'll be different and there will be new expectations…"

"Like sex?" Tweek assumes.

"Yeah," I say weakly.

"Don't do it if you don't want to," he says simply. "If you're with someone you love and who loves you, then it'll be a choice you can make. I'm assuming it's Kyle, right? Well, he'd never pressure you. I don't think he'd even ask you for it because he knows you and he knows what you've been through and he's a good person. He wouldn't cheat, either. Even if he sleeps around now, he'd be different with you. He'd be better because he knows you're worth it."

"Am I…?" I wonder, mostly asking myself.

"Yes," Tweek says surely. "I think the only reason he sleeps around is because he's bored and sad and he can't have the one person he really wants – _you_. Not that it's your fault or anything. It's probably just something he does to seek comfort, too. I mean… we're all really fucked up and Kyle is no exception. His suicide attempt proved that. No offence to 'im…"

I feel myself frown. "Yeah…"

He shrugs his shoulders. "I dunno if I can really help you out, but… hopefully something I said will make you worry a little less."

I nod my head. "I'm sorry you had shitty experiences, but it's kind of nice to know that I'm not completely alone."

Tweek smiles wearily. "No one is ever alone. Sometimes they just like to think they are because it's easier than talking. Our experiences are always unique, but we can still relate to other people who have shared _similar_ experiences."

"Yeah, I guess so," I say softly. "I know you're not really sexually attracted to people, but are you romantically attracted to people?"

"I haven't been yet," he admits. "Sex was a quick commitment that was over pretty fast. Romance isn't. I doubt I can commit to something for that long. I don't really want romance. If I had to make a guess as to why I insisted on having sex, it's because I wanted to pretend to be like other people for a little while. I wanted to compensate for what happened when I was a kid and so I'd pretend it didn't affect literally every aspect of my life… but it does. So, jokes on me. I guess I thought that I needed to have sex to be normal. I didn't really know asexuality existed in humans, but now that I do I don't feel the need to have sex because there's nothing wrong with the way I feel."

I offer him a smile. "You seem to cope better than I do."

He lets out a little laugh. "Probably not. I'm actually such a freak. I'm overly paranoid and a bit of a shut-in when I'm not working. Everyone thinks so… but it's fine. I don't need school. One day I'll take over my parents' business and that's how I'll make my living."

I nod my head. "It's a nice, clean job… business owner."

"I like the ambiance of cafés," Tweek says. "I like working there a lot."

"I hope I can find a job someday that I like," I muse.

* * *

Somehow, talking to Tweek did help. So, I decide to make rounds. Next, I stop at Kenny's house. I let myself in, since it's pointless to wait for someone to answer the door. On my way upstairs, I hear music. Bluesy.

"Amy Winehouse?" I ask as I open the door.

"Hey!" he greets. He's sitting on his bed – a simple mattress on the floor covered in sheets.

"Since when do you listen to Amy Winehouse?" I wonder as I join him.

"Craig made me the playlist. He really likes her stuff."

Craig seems to make playlists for everyone. Music must be one of his favorite things.

"She was talented," I say, adding my own two cents. "So, uh… How are things going with Craig?"

"I'm trynna be his friend," Kenny explains.

"Me, too," I admit. "He talks to me sometimes."

"Me, too," Kenny says. "I used to think he was all secretive, but he's a pretty open book. He says he doesn't like secrets and the power they give people… so he likes to keep all his 'secrets' out in the open. Then they're not really secrets and no one has the power to use them against him."

"That's an interesting way to look at it," I muse.

"Yeah, he's actually coming over tonight," Kenny adds.

"Gonna try and fuck him?" I ask. "He's a virgin, so… be nice."

Kenny waves a dismissive hand at me. "I'm a perfect gentleman in the sack."

He's probably going to end up fucking Craig tonight… especially since Craig seems pretty careless about the whole ordeal. In his own words, he'll do it with anyone. Maybe he just wants to get it over with so he doesn't have to think about it anymore. I think a lot of people in high school end up feeling that way because it's made to be such a huge deal. Virgins are always made fun of and ripped on.

"Well, whatever," I say.

"So, what about you?" he asks. "Gonna see Kyle tonight?"

"Probably," I admit, "but we won't be doing anything inappropriate."

Kenny smiles slightly. "How was therapy? You had therapy today, right?"

"Yeah, it was fine," I say simply. "We talked a lot about Kyle… Dr. Hightower wants me to bring him in."

"Are you going to?"

"Probably," I admit. "I mean, if Kyle wants to."

"He probably will if it's for you," Kenny says with a chuckle. "He does anything you ask."

I roll my eyes at that. I don't bother arguing with him about whether or not that's actually true. I think Kyle helps me all that he can, but when I want to help him… that's a different story. Clearly, he has a hard time opening up. He's proven that.

* * *

I bum around with Kenny for a while, trying to convince him not to drop out of school when we're nearly finished. He relents somewhat carelessly, though I'm not sure if that means I've succeeded or not.

When the sun begins to go down I take my leave. When I turn up the street, I see Craig coming towards me.

I hold up my hand and he responds with, "Hi."

"Hey," I say. "Where'd your septum ring go?"

He tilts his chin up, giving me a view up his nose and letting me see the hidden metal.

"You hide it up your nose?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "I can't have it at work. It's against the code, but since it's a horseshoe barbell it's pretty easy to hide. I just flip it upside down."

"Huh…" I muse. "So, on your way to Kenny's?"

Craig nods his head and says, "I don't really know why, but he seems interested in me lately."

"He wants to fuck you," I point out simply, "but maybe it's more than that. He might also have a crush on you."

"Oh," he murmurs.

"Are you going to let him?" I pry.

"We'll see," he says.


	3. Taking things slow

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **To the anon who asked about the POV, yes it's all going to be in Stan's. This will be a relatively short fic :)**

 **Anywhooo, thanks for all the nice reviews!**

* * *

The following week, Kenny looks smug and satisfied as he joins me at the lunch table.

"What did you do on the weekend?" I ask him, somewhat afraid to find out.

Kenny smiles and then visibly tries to stifle it. "I got a boyfriend."

"Oh, wow!" I exclaim, feeling happy for him. "Who is it and how did it happen?"

Not like I don't already know, but I'll let him tell the story.

"Craig," he says with a laugh. "It all started when he brought over a bottle of rum…"

"And…?" I pry expectantly, not entirely shocked.

"We finished the bottle and we were both pretty wasted," he adds quietly. "I guess he thought my parents would care if they saw it so he asked what we should do with it. I kind of joked around and said he could shove it up his ass, but then Craig grabbed the bottle and actually _did_ shove it up his ass! He gave me _quite_ a show."

My jaw drops to the floor and then I start to laugh somewhat nervously. "You guys belong together. You're both depraved."

"That's exactly what I was thinking, too," Kenny chuckles. "It was probably the alcohol…" he adds, shrugging. "Anyway, I didn't actually touch him. I just watched. I want us to be sober when we screw. We kind of spoke about it the morning after. He looked kind of embarrassed but I told him not to be. Then I asked him to go with me. He said yes. So, here's to modern romance."

I stare at him in disbelief. "That's insane!"

Kenny always gets what he wants – or, rather, _who_ he wants. If he sets his sights on someone, he manages to get into their pants sooner or later.

"What does Craig think of your _career choice_?" I pry.

"He doesn't like it," Kenny admits, "but he also recognizes that it's work and he said he'd try and separate it. If he can't… I'd be okay with having an open relationship with him."

"You wouldn't quit being a sex worker?" I ask.

He shakes his head.

When Kyle finds us, Kenny regales him with the story he just told me. Kyle laughs and cringes.

"Anyway, I'm going to go find him!" Kenny decides, taking a few more bites of his sandwich before sauntering off.

I can feel Kyle watching me. I don't really know why. I'm not going to ask him. Instead, I'll let him do the asking… because I know there's clearly something on his mind. It always goes like this.

"You okay?" he asks after a few minutes.

"Of course," I insist, turning my head to look at him while I bite on an apple. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Kyle shrugs his shoulders. "You do this thing where you distract yourself by immersing yourself in everyone else's problems. You help other people when you can't even help yourself. Maybe it makes you feel better… I don't know. It's just something I've noticed."

I know he's right. I won't even bother trying to deny it.

"It's easier this way," I murmur. "Thinking about it hurts too much and when the shame and humiliation begins to set in again it drives me fucking crazy with self-disgust… and I'd rather not feel that way. So, yeah, I avoid thinking about it and maybe in turn I avoid coping… but I don't really want to think about it, even if that means I'll never properly cope." I pause and stare at him. "How would you cope with it?"

"I don't know," he whispers.

"No one has any right to tell me what I'm doing is wrong," I say with finality. "Maybe I'll never be able to cope with it, so it's pointless to try."

"You don't know that," Kyle tries to reason.

"I don't want to waste my time being sad over something I can't change," I decide. "I can't even think of anything more fucked up than what happened to me. I literally experienced the worst thing I could possibly think of and they didn't even grant me the mercy of death when it was over. So, I have to keep living… and I'm going to do it the way I want, so stop trying to get me to cope _the right way_. It is what it is, right?"

Kyle looks guilty. "You're right," he relents quietly. "I'm sorry. I just… I want you to be happy."

I let out a bitter laugh at the sheer unfamiliarity of it. "Yeah, well… I don't think that'll ever truly happen. Maybe I'll have moments where I'm happy, but it won't last too long. That's probably the best I can hope for at this point."

"Do I help you or do I hurt you?" Kyle asks out of the blue.

"You don't help me _or_ hurt me, Kyle," I tell him honestly. "You can't save people. The best you can do is not make things worse… and you don't. You don't make things worse."

"Good," he whispers.

"Hey, um…" I start, "would you be interested in coming to my next therapy session with me?"

Kyle looks somewhat surprised that I'm asking, but nonetheless he says, "Yeah, of course! I'm honoured you'd even ask, dude."

I offer him a small smile. "I want you there. I think it'll give us a chance to hash some things out."

"Like what?" he pries.

I shrug. "Not sure, probably stuff we aren't even aware that we need to talk about."

Kyle chuckles and says, "Yeah, probably. Therapists can be good mediators."

* * *

It's the weekend now.

I got cornered in an underground parking lot on Friday while shopping in a Denver mall. I was trying to find my mom's car because she was coming to meet me. Nothing physical happened. I didn't get mugged or beat on. I guess the guys just wanted to scare the shit out of me because I'm small and young and that pack mentality loves to prey on the weak. So, they shouted at me. I even cried about it and they laughed. I don't even know why I try to venture out alone at this point. I seem to attract this kind of crap. I don't know why guys do shit like this. I always hear horror stories about it happening to girls I know. They get cornered in the streets or cars speed by and shout lewd things. It's really fucked up. My mom apologized a million times when she finally arrived. I told her it was fine and then we got smoothies.

It's Saturday now and I call Wendy over. I make tea – since I know she doesn't like coffee – and then I tell her about what happened to me last night.

"Stan, don't think I'm trashing your gender," she starts. "Men are beautiful and lovely, but they can also be the opposite and they do it in high statistics when it comes to things like that."

"I know," I agree softly. "Trust me, I know."

"They will prey on women and smaller men," she continues, "I honestly have no idea why. I think there are a lot of reasons and we can't just go ahead and say it's one thing when it's a lot of things. I think hypermasculinity plays a huge part in it. That shit is so toxic."

"Yeah," I agree again. "I'm glad my parents never perpetuated it. I'd probably be even more fucked up than I already am."

She gives me a sympathetic look and then stares down at her cup of tea. "I'm really sorry, Stan. I wish I could take away all your pain."

"You're comforting," I tell her. "I like talking to you as much as I enjoy talking to Kyle."

She smiles at that and looks up at me, saying, "Okay, I'm glad… and if you ever want me to be your bodyguard, you should let me know. I'm a black belt, remember."

I chuckle at that and say, "All right, deal."

* * *

Next week, Kyle gladly comes with me to my next appointment just like he said he would. We sit in the waiting room quietly, neither of us knowing what to say. However, soon enough my name is called and we both walk into the office. Dr. Hightower introduces herself and then Kyle does the same. He is perfectly charming, but I'm sure Dr. Hightower sees through the façade. Kyle is good at this, but she's a professional.

After formalities are taken care of, we get down to business.

"So, Kyle, how would you describe your relationship with Stan?"

It's an odd question – one that I don't quite understand. Nonetheless, I'm quiet as I wait for Kyle's response.

"We're best friends," he starts. "Soul-mates, even."

"Soul-mates," Dr. Hightower repeats. "Why do you choose that word to describe your relationship with Stan?"

"Because it's accurate," Kyle continues. "It best communicates my feelings for Stan. It's deeper than best friends. He's perfect for me and I'm perfect for him. We get along. We never fight. We argue sometimes because it's normal, but we always resolve our differences. Actually, in Yiddish there is a word called "basherter" that is kind of like a soul-mate. That was one of the first words I learned in Yiddish. My grandmother taught it to me. It means destiny. That's how I think of Stan. I feel like he completes me."

Hearing him talk makes me feel pleasantly warm in my stomach and chest. I'm probably blushing a bit, too.

Dr. Hightower smiles at Kyle before glancing at me. "Stan, how do you feel about Kyle?"

"I feel the same way," I say, feeling somewhat shy suddenly. "Um, I feel like you're the person who understands me best. You're everything I want. You always support me and I want to support you, too… but I'm really fucking scared at the same time. Time is moving fast and we're growing up and I feel like I'm not growing with everyone else. I feel stuck, like I'm constantly travelling in a circle and in the center of that circle are all my shitty memories. I can't really escape them and it feels like I'm dwelling, but I don't know how to move on from something so bad and I don't want people to leave me behind… I don't want _you_ to leave me behind."

Kyle softens. "I wouldn't ever…" he promises.

"I want to be with you and it makes me so jealous and sad when I see you with other people, but…" I trail off, pausing and trying to contemplate how I want to communicate what I feel. I need to get it out without sounding like a possessive person, but it's kind of impossible because I am possessive. "I know I don't really have any right because I'm not offering you any kind of commitment… yet I still want you to commit to me."

"I will," Kyle says. "If you want me to, I will… and honestly, it'd probably be a good thing."

"You'd be willing to take things that slow?" I ask him, somewhat surprised.

"Even if it takes you forever to kiss me, I won't mind," he says. "I just like being near you. You're the one person I really look forward to seeing. It's always been that way."

I smile faintly at that and Dr. Hightower says, "You seem to get along very well with one another."

"We do," Kyle says.

The session continues. Kyle says there are times when I feel distant and there are times when I ignore what happened to me, choosing instead to wrap myself up in other people's problems. Dr. Hightower tries to get me to communicate my feelings about it to Kyle. I try. I once again tell him that it hurts to think about. I've always been a drinker, but now it's even harder to stop because I have so many more reasons to drink than I used to. I used to just be some sad kid. Now I'm some sad victim. I hate that word. Victim. I hate it and all that it implies. Everyone feels sorry for me and I think that's why I get away with so much. If I was just a normal person, then I wouldn't. People would get angry at me a hell of a lot more.

After the session, me and Kyle leave. I feel kind of upset, which Kyle knows.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Don't," I say. "It's fine. Let's just change the subject."

Kyle nods his head. "It felt like she was playing match maker," he says with a chuckle. "It was nice, though. I feel like she kind of helped regulate the conversation and she helped us get out a lot of our feelings. She helped us have the talk we desperately needed to have."

"Yeah," I agree, though I'm still not sure where we go from here. Nonetheless, it was a good first step forward and I actually feel good about it. I don't feel anxious. I thought that I would, but I feel calm and comfortable. That alone makes me feel like we're making a good choice. The pace isn't too quick. Things aren't going too fast. This is okay. I'm okay.

* * *

Craig starts eating lunch with us when he isn't eating with his usual crew. On Friday, me and Kenny make our way to where he's seated with Wendy.

"What'cha eating?" Kenny asks as we sit down with him.

"Uh, pizza," he says before taking a bite of his pepperoni slice.

I don't eat meat. I stopped a long time ago, but I don't have a superiority complex about it. People can eat whatever they like. Plus, hunting and gathering societies still exist today and who am I to say no one should eat meat? I don't tell people what they can and can't eat. I think that's such an ugly thing to do.

I pull my own lunch out while Kenny munches on an apple. Craig is a slow, tidy eater. It's like he's worried that people are judging him for eating. It's kind of sad that something everyone has to do makes him nervous.

It reminds me of something that Daisy from _Girl, Interrupted_ said: " _Everyone likes to be alone when it comes out. I like to be alone when it goes in."_

Bill Allen walks past our table and when be spots Craig he decides to say something cruel.

"Oink, oink, Craig."

I feel my jaw drop and Kenny simply raises an eyebrow, looking unsure at what the comment even means. I guess he's oblivious and Craig didn't tell him yet.

Craig turns around as Bill saunters off and he whips an opened yoghurt cup at him. I guess Craig has good aim, because it gets him in the back of the head, getting yoghurt in his hair.

"Aw, what the fuck, Craig!" he shouts viciously.

Craig ditches his food a split second later, leaving the cafeteria angrily. I get up and follow and so does Kenny.

"What was that all about?" Kenny asks me as we tail Craig.

"I'll let Craig tell you," I respond, not wanting to tell Kenny things that aren't mine to tell.

When I expect Craig to turn into the bathroom, he doesn't. He just continues to his locker, throwing his books inside and then leaving the building.

I decide not to follow.

Is it really my place?

I know I like making everyone's business my own, but maybe Kenny should go after him instead of me. They're in a relationship now, after all.

"Go," I say to Kenny. "He'll talk to you."

Kenny eyes me but then nods, leaving.

If Craig told me about his ED, then he'll tell Kenny. He said it wasn't a secret, after all.

* * *

Come night, Wendy calls and tells me she's going to a party. Then she invites me to come along. I accept somewhat hesitantly. Honestly, the only reason I agree to go is because I know Kyle will be there and I don't want him to do anything dumb.

Wendy stays with me at all times. There's a big cooler of jungle juice sitting on the kitchen table. Stay classy, South Park. Still, neither of us drinks. I have a feeling if I wasn't here, she might, but since I am she won't.

Halfway through the night, I see Craig being felt up by some guy. He doesn't look like he minds it, either. At first I think nothing of it, but a split second later I remember that he's dating Kenny. I feel my chest jump and then I shove my way across the room. When I reach Craig, I pry him away from the guy he's tonguing. I tell the guy to fuck off and then ask Craig, "Man, what the fuck are you doing?"

Craig brushes me off and says, "None of your business."

"Yes, it is!" I insist. "Kenny is one of my best friends and he doesn't deserve to be cheated on!"

He frowns at that, but he doesn't respond.

"You have a _boyfriend_ , dude!" I continue. "And I'm not going to sit around and let you fuck up something good, so chill the fuck out and quit being like that! Kenny _likes_ you! So stop with this B.S."

He leans against the wall, banging his head back against it and staring off into what looks like empty space. His eyes are glazed over and he looks distraught.

"What is it?" I ask him.

"I'm coming out of it," he murmurs quietly, "and I wish I wasn't."

"What do you mean?" I pry, not understanding. I glance at Wendy, who is standing beside me. She simply shrugs.

"The drug trip," Craig reminds me. "It's like... soon I'll be normal again... or, as normal as I was before it happened."

"Oh, right," I whisper. "Did Kenny piss you off? Didn't he go after you when you left school earlier?"

"Yeah," he says. "He's… kind of tactless."

"Did he say something to upset you?" I pry some more. "If he did, you should talk to him. You shouldn't… do stuff like this. You'll regret it and so will he. It won't make anyone happy."

"Are you going to tell him?" Craig asks me.

"No, but you should," I say. "If you don't, then I'll probably feel like I have to."

He lets out a shuddery sigh before walking past me.

"Jeez," Wendy murmurs.

"Should I follow him?" I ask, glancing at her.

She smiles wearily. "You can't keep making everyone's problems your problems, Stan…"

"I'm not!" I insist, but I know she's right.

"Go after him," she says. "If you don't, you'll probably regret it, won't you?"

"Probably," I admit.

With that, I leave. I exit the front door and spot Craig at the end of the driveway. When I approach him, I see that he's fumbling with his lighter. Silently, I take it from him and light the cigarette between his lips. He mumbles a thank you and begins walking. I trail after him and he doesn't tell me to fuck off.

"Why do you do this?" he asks vaguely.

"What?" I respond.

"Try to help everyone…"

"Oh," I laugh, "well, 'cause I can't help myself and I want to at least be doing something good in the meantime… Plus, I know most people aren't going to shove me away."

"You're easy to talk to because you know what it's like to suffer," Craig says.

"Yeah," I murmur. "I know... S'probably why people trust me." I glance over at him and then ask, "Are YOU suffering, Craig?"

He laughs at that and smoke escapes his mouth and nose. "I don't know… All I know is that I feel bad lately. It's a distantly familiar emotion. Nothing anyone says seems to help."

"They don't understand," Stan says, "and I'm not saying I do, because I don't… I've never been through what you've been through."

"Yeah," he mumbles.

"What did Kenny say?" I finally ask.

Craig inhales deeply before slowly exhaling. He flicks his cigarette, ashing it onto the slushy street. "I told him I had an eating disorder and he just said, 'But you're so skinny?' and then he said, 'If you think you're fat you must think I'm obese!' it was just… something I didn't even know how to respond to. At first I forced myself to brush it off, but later we were eating and he commented saying that I ate a lot. I guess he was surprised? I don't know. That upset me. People think eating disorders are JUST about food, but it's a lot more complicated than that. I just… Fuck, I don't know. A lot of stuff rubs me the wrong way. I don't like when people tell me I look healthy, because I know that means I gained weight… I just try to avoid scales. My parents got rid of all the ones in our house because weighing myself just messed me up a lot. People want me to just snap out of it… and I guess, for a while, the drugs helped numb me to everything in the world 'cause it messed with my brain… but now I don't have that anymore. It's just a constant struggle."

When he finishes talking, I nod my head. "Yeah… Kenny is kind of ditzy sometimes. His heart is in the right place, but he has no filters. I'm not justifying it, I'm just saying… that's how he is. I think if you take the time to really talk to him about it and tell him how you feel and what you're struggling with, then he might be better."

"Yeah," Craig murmurs in agreement. "I didn't really tell him much of anything. I've been in recovery for years now, but I can literally feel it getting bad again. I don't want to relapse, but I seriously think I might… and my parents are the absolute worst because they just think it's all their fault… Don't tell anyone this, but they think it's all 'cause I played with Barbie dolls as a child."

"I'm sorry," I sympathize, "and don't worry, I won't tell anyone that. What usually helps you when you're feeling overwhelmed?"

"Fuck, I don't know," he says. "I hate getting advice, I hate getting criticized, I hate hearing people talk about their own bodies or other peoples' bodies… a lot of people don't understand that when I'm talking to them, I'm not looking for them to offer something in return. I just want them to listen. Simple as that."

"Yeah," I say softly. "I know."

Soon enough, we're standing in front of Craig's house. He hesitates. "God, my parents are going to fucking kill me 'cause I smell like a winery," he mutters.

"Want me to walk you to Kenny's?" I offer. "You can spend the night with him and talk."

He smiles wearily. "You would do that?"

"Yeah," I say, smiling back.

"God, you're such a nice guy," he says and there isn't an ounce of mocking in his tone.

We continue down the street, walking past Kyle's house and my house and Clyde's house in the process. Soon enough, we're in the poor part of town. Then we're in front of Kenny's house.

"Here we are," I say.

"Hey," he murmurs, turning to look at me. "Thank you."

I smile and say, "Sure, Craig."

Once he's inside, I turn around and make my way back home. I get out my phone and tell Wendy I won't be going back. I text her again when I'm back home to let her know I'm safe.

I know it might sound wrong, but it helps me to help others. I guess it's hardly altruistic, but I don't care at this point. I don't think I'm doing anything bad. I do want to help people and by doing that I can make myself feel better. This is probably the only thing in life that keeps me going at this point.

* * *

The following night, I feel restless.

I wonder if it took a lot for Craig to let Kenny in. I'm not just talking mentally, I mean physically. I know Craig is (or was) a virgin. I wonder if he has problems looking at himself. I always have problems looking at myself.

Via Facebook, I decide to message him after getting ready for bed.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Hey, question.

CRAIG TUCKER: Sure, shoot.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Are you a confident person?

CRAIG TUCKER: Idk not particularly.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Why?

STANLEY R. MARSH: This is going to sound invasive and personal, but was it hard to get naked with Kenny for the first time?

CRAIG TUCKER: Are you asking this because you want to sleep with Kyle?

STANLEY R. MARSH: Well… yes, eventually. I can't stop thinking about it.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I know Kyle won't hurt me or anything, but I don't want to feel overwhelmed and then have it turn out to be a horrible experience for the both of us.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I don't know how I'll know if I'm ready or not.

CRAIG TUCKER: Take it slow.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Don't just jump right into fucking.  
CRAIG TUCKER: That's a big step.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Try to do other stuff before actually having sex.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Like, be naked in a non-sexual way maybe.

STANLEY R. MARSH: We haven't done much of anything.

CRAIG TUCKER: I'm sure Kyle is fine with that. He doesn't seem like the type to pressure people.

STANLEY R. MARSH: He's not, but I feel selfish since we're just going to be doing it all at my pace.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I know he's probably already ready to sleep with me.

CRAIG TUCKER: Doesn't matter if he is. It takes two and both people need to be ready. If you're not, he has to wait.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Blaaah.

CRAIG TUCKER: Honestly, I felt shy when I slept with Kenny.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I didn't expect it because I was so eager to toss my virginity at the first person who wanted it.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I thought it would be with someone who didn't matter, but Kenny does matter and that made it hard.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Wow…  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah, I kind of know how you feel.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I'm worried Kyle will see something he doesn't like.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Plus, I'm worried I'll freak out while it's happening.

CRAIG TUCKER: Kenny probably didn't tell you, but I kind of freaked out while we were doing it.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Shit, no, he didn't tell me.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: What happened?

CRAIG TUCKER: Lol.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I cried.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Aw, why?

CRAIG TUCKER: Idk I guess it was a lot more intense than I thought it would be.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Plus, we slept together really early.  
CRAIG TUCKER: We haven't been dating long at all.  
CRAIG TUCKER: It's been, like, a week and maybe I wasn't ready.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Or maybe it was because it wasn't with some random asshole, it was with someone I actually cared about.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I always assumed I'd probably be drunk when it happened.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I thought that would make the event easier to get past, but I was sober.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Lol idk Kenny probably played it down when he told you guys, though.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Actually, he didn't even tell us you guys slept together.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Usually he speaks crudely about his sexual endeavours.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Like when you guys were drunk, he told us about it.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: He seemed proud.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: But he didn't say anything about you after that.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I think he grew to really, really like you more than he's ever liked anyone else.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: So, he doesn't want to ruin that.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: He respects you.

CRAIG TUCKER: I like him, too.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Does that mean you guys worked things out?

CRAIG TUCKER: We're starting to, at least.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I told him I kissed someone else.  
CRAIG TUCKER: He asked if it was because he's a hooker.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I said it was a mix of many things, but that might be one of them.  
CRAIG TUCKER: He said he wasn't going to quit his job.  
CRAIG TUCKER: And I guess I can't force him to, but I still want to try this.  
CRAIG TUCKER: After that we talked about my ED.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Idk I talked a lot about my feelings and shit.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Do you feel good about the talk?

CRAIG TUCKER: Yeah, he seemed to understand and he looked remorseful when I told him the things he said really got to me.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Good!

CRAIG TUCKER: But enough about that.  
CRAIG TUCKER: What are you going to do with Kyle?

STANLEY R. MARSH: I'll take your advice.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: We'll do it slow.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I won't rush into something I know I'm not ready for.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Maybe we'll try to actually look at each other before we do any touching.

CRAIG TUCKER: Yeah.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Did you and Kenny do that?

CRAIG TUCKER: No, we just jumped right into it after my idiotic drunken display in his bedroom.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I guess the fact that I was drunk made things a little easier that time.  
CRAIG TUCKER: But I wasn't drunk when we actually slept together and I just felt so uncomfortable when he looked at me.  
CRAIG TUCKER: He tried to make me feel safe and comfortable, but I was so not feeling it.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Idk I just couldn't help but wonder if he thought I looked gross, though I know he didn't.  
CRAIG TUCKER: If he thought I looked gross, then he wouldn't have wanted to sleep with me because he saw me naked that night we drank.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah :c

CRAIG TUCKER: But whatever, it's just something I need to work through.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I told Kenny that and he seemed understanding.  
CRAIG TUCKER: So, I doubt he'll try to move things along too fast.

STANLEY R. MARSH: That's good.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: If he does, I'll kick his butt.

CRAIG TUCKER: Lol.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Kyle has never even seen me naked, not even as a kid.

CRAIG TUCKER: Does that make you nervous?

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Dumb as it sounds, I just want him to think I'm pretty.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I also want to be able to act accordingly.

CRAIG TUCKER: I worried about that, too.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Kenny thinks you're super attractive.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: He says that a lot.

CRAIG TUCKER: Haha really.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yep!

CRAIG TUCKER: Good to know.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I guess worrying never helps, but I understand that it's impossible not to sometimes.

STANLEY R. MARSH: True.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Dunno how it will happen.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I can't even imagine it.

CRAIG TUCKER: Yeah, I know.  
CRAIG TUCKER: It kind of just feels like a surreal experience the first time.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Haha.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I just want it to be good.

CRAIG TUCKER: I'm sure it will be.  
CRAIG TUCKER: You'll know when you feel ready.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah, you're right.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: So, does this make us friends?

CRAIG TUCKER: Lol sure.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I probably wouldn't talk about this stuff with someone who wasn't my friend.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Haha, cool.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Anyway, thanks.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I'm going to go to bed.

CRAIG TUCKER: Me, too, actually.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Goodnight.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Night!

I sign off after that and close my computer, sitting up from my desk. I kill the lights and get into bed, gladly welcoming sleep.

I think Tweek was right. Something about Craig makes me feel calm, too.


	4. Time for a confession

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **Sorry for being a dumpster LOL I forget to update :( but yes, nagging me always works so feel free when I'm being lazy.**

 **I'm currently planning a trip to Disney World! I've never been there, so it'll be rad.**

* * *

"I wasn't trying to hurt him, I guess I just didn't really get what it meant," Kenny says solemnly. "He told me, though. He even cried, which surprised me. He REALLY cried."

It's free period and he's telling me about his talk with Craig.

"Damn," I murmur.

"I think it's a lot of things that probably caused him to cheat," Kenny continues, shrugging. "I mean, I know my _work_ is hard to deal with… but as long as he didn't cheat because he's attracted to someone else, I can forgive him and we can work through it."

I nod my head. "A lot of people wouldn't do that, especially since it's so early in your relationship. They'd just dump him and be done with it."

"Well, I really like him and I think he really likes me," Kenny says, "even if he cheated. I don't think that meant he stopped thinking about me. I think it meant he was thinking too hard about me."

I smile faintly. "I'm glad you can look at it like that."

When Craig finds us, he smiles at Kenny. I can see the braces on his teeth and the dimples in his cheeks. Kenny grins back. I guess the talk they had really set things right between then, 'cause you can't fake that kind of emotion.

Kenny holds out his hand, taking Craig's once he's close enough.

I'm happy that they're happy.

* * *

After school, Wendy walks home with me since Kyle has football. I invite her in and we watch TV for a while, chatting mindlessly until the conversation takes a turn.

"So, how are you?" she asks the inevitable question.

"Fine," I tell her. "How are you?"

"Fine," she echoes. "I don't feel guilty or anything anymore."

Wendy felt bad about getting an abortion. Little known fact to all the pro-lifers – no one _likes_ abortions… but sometimes they're necessary.

"That's good," I murmur.

And just like that, the conversation turns towards feminist issues. Wendy starts talking about the comments on a news article she read the other day and it's making me uneasy.

"Wendy, stop…" I plead.

"Y'know, Stan, feminism benefits men, too," she points out.

"I know, Wendy," I say softly. "I'm a feminist… but I'm not really in the mood to talk about feminism right now."

These conversations often lead to talking about abuse and I've already been through enough of that to last a life time. I don't want Wendy bringing up any more news stories. I'm not really in the mood for it.

"What's wrong?" she asks, reading me easily.

"Everything," I mutter. "I just feel so bad lately and it's all I can concentrate on…"

She nods, understanding exactly what I'm referring to. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," I say. "Just… distract me with something pleasant."

And so she does.

* * *

On Friday, I end up at yet another party. I lost Kyle, so I'm wandering around trying to find another familiar face to latch onto.

Unfortunately, the only familiar face I see is Cartman's and though he's the last person I want to see, he decides to approach me.

"Hi, Stanny," he greets me teasingly.

"I hate you," I immediately bite out, already growing emotional.

"For stealing Kahl away?" he asks calmly.

I let out a pathetic sob, hating myself more and more with each passing second. I can't even look him in the eye. Still, I think I hate myself more than I could ever hate someone else.

Carman lets out a long sigh and stands up, leaving the room. When I think he's ditching me, he returns with a beer bottle. He dangles it in front of me as I swipe at my eyes.

"You're a horrible person," I whisper hoarsely before reaching forward and taking.

"And you're weak," he retorts, smirking slightly.

"Yeah," I agree shamefully. "I know."

* * *

In the morning, I wake up in a bed. First thing I recognize is that it isn't mine. Second thing I recognize… is that it's Kyle's. I breathe a sigh of relief as I sit up, but the pang in my head causes me to cringe and let out a whiny moan.

"You relapsed," I hear.

I squint, glancing to the doorway where Kyle is hovering. He looks upset, but not surprised.

"Yeah," I whisper, staring down at my fidgety hands. "Again."

He sits down with me, letting out a sigh.

"Are you mad?" I ask him.

"Of course not," I say. "I just feel sad for you, because I know how hard you're trying. I wish there was some way it could be made easier."

"Yeah," I laugh bitterly. "Cartman definitely didn't help with that last night…"

Kyle frowns at that. "What do you mean?"

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to force the shame away. "I just… I didn't know where you were. I was looking for someone familiar, but all I could find was Cartman… and he offered me a drink… and I took it…"

Kyle's jaw drops. "That piece of _shit_!" he hisses.

"I'm weak," I say with a laugh. "It's not all his fault. It's also mine for not being able to say no."

Kyle grits his teeth. "Cartman knows better. He KNOWS this is something you struggle with and he KNOWS he shouldn't be making it even harder for you!"

"Sh," I hush him when he starts to shout. "I'm pretty sure we've already established that he's evil."

Kyle smiles faintly. "Yeah, I guess we have…"

"Is he bugging you lately?" I ask vaguely, knowing Kyle will understand what I mean.

"Of course," he murmurs. "But apart from that I'm no longer screwing around with every hot person to cross my path," he says. "It just ends up depressing me, so… I'm just going to take care of it myself."

"You're gonna jerk off?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says with a sheepish laugh. "I'm pretty horny and shit, so I, uh, bought a _toy_." He says the last part quietly.

I chuckle at that. "Was it awkward?"

"Yeah," he laughs again. "I went into the store and kind of tried not to act completely oblivious, even though I had no idea what I was looking for or what half of the things on the shelves were even for." He wrinkles his nose and then asks, "Hey, are you sure you want to be with me when I'm still fucking around with Cartman?"

"Yeah," I say surely. "Plus, it's not like he's really giving you much of a choice. He's blackmailing you."

Kyle wrinkles his nose and glances away from me. "There isn't anything else I can do, Stan."

And I guess he's right about that.

* * *

I decide to tell my therapist what Cartman did to me and what he is doing to Kyle.

"I don't know what to do," I whisper. "I don't want Cartman to touch him…"

Dr. Hightower frowns, nodding her head. "That's a sticky situation. He sounds like he has some major problems of his own."

"I don't think he has a conscience," I murmur. "He can't feel empathy… and I feel stupid for blaming him for my relapse… but he made me feel so fucking hopeless I couldn't help but accept the alcohol. When I make my next step with Kyle, I don't want Cartman to be a part of the picture… I keep trying to think of something that will stop him, but I can't come up with anything. Kyle doesn't want anyone to know what he did and he doesn't want to know what Cartman is doing, either… So, he can't really win."

More nodding. More scribbling down notes on her clipboard.

Sometimes I wonder what kinds of things she's writing down. Sometimes I wonder if I'd be offended if I read them. Probably. I'm so fucking sensitive, especially to any kind of criticism.

"What kind of person do you think he seemed like when I brought him in?" I pry.

"He seemed calm, polite, understanding," she starts. "He seemed to care about you and your well-being a lot. He seemed self-sacrificing. He seemed like he puts a lot of pressure on himself."

"So do his parents," I cut in. "They barely acknowledge that he has a problem. They have his entire life planned out and depression isn't a part of it."

Dr. Hightower nods her head. "Parents can make it hard on their children without even realizing it."

"Yeah," I murmur. "I guess I'm lucky 'cause my parents are supportive of everything I do."

"That is detrimental," Dr. Hightower says. "For those lacking support, progress can be difficult."

"Yeah," I agree. "I think Kyle keeps a lot in. I try to get him to open up to me, but he has so many secrets… and it's like he doesn't want to burden me. I wish he told me he was letting Cartman fuck him. I had to find out by accidentally walking in on it and I still can't get the picture out of my head. I wish I could wipe the memory away because it's so gross… The thought of Cartman touching him literally makes me insane. I just… I want Kyle to be happy and he's not and it makes me feel bad for him. I feel like there isn't anything that can be done."

"Just make sure he knows you want to support him," Dr. Hightower says.

"Yeah," I murmur. "I'll try…"

"How is your libido lately?" she asks, changing the topic towards one that's equally sensitive.

"Oh, um…" I pause, trailing off. "I haven't… touched myself… in a long time… but I also haven't been, like, waking up with stained pants, so I haven't been thinking about it." I feel my face heat up as I get the words out. I wish I could talk about this stuff more easily, but I feel so shameful.

"And your medication is still working for you?"

I nod my head. "I don't want to think about how I'd feel without it… I hate crediting my pills for so much, but it is what it is."

"There's no shame in it, Stanley," she says gently. "Medications such as the one you take are simply helping you to feel the way you should."

"I want to be normal," I mumble. "I want to be able to do _things_ with Kyle and not feel sick about it… It's been two years and I'm still so fucking traumatized."

"What you experienced was a very traumatic situation," Dr. Hightower says to me. "These things take time. Don't try to rush yourself. Progress can be a slow process, but you're doing well."

"Am I?" I wonder.

"You are," she says surely.

I can't help but think back to my first session. I was completely numb. My mom walked me in and then left. Dr. Hightower asked me questions and I responded in this dead, mechanical tone of voice. After one session, she wanted me to come back for another. Then another. Then we made it a regular thing. It took a while for me to actually get emotional, but by our fourth session I welcomed the waterworks. It was hard to stay numb after that.

I feel like nothing has changed since then. I still wear baggy shirts. I'm still shy and uncomfortable with myself. The thought of sex puts me off. The thought of doing it with someone I genuinely want to do it with causes me anxiety. I still have bad dreams. I still think about it a lot. I still wonder why it had to happen to me. i wonder if the guys who did it will ever feel sorry. I wonder if they'll ever get out of prison. I wonder what I'll do if I ever see any of them again.

I worry about all these things. It's hard to think about.

Before I know it, my eyes are wet and when I blink, the first tear falls.

Dr. Hightower pushes a tissue box to the edge of her desk and I take one. "I feel bad," I say wetly. It's a vague and childish confession, but it about sums up my current state of mind.

"What were you thinking about just now that got you so upset?" she pries gently. "Were you in thought, or did you dissociate?"

"I don't know," I murmur. "I was just… thinking about sad stuff. I want to change a lot of things about myself and I feel like what little progress I've made isn't enough."

"What do you want to change?" she asks me.

I sniffle a bit, letting out a shuddery breath. "I just want to be normal. I wish nothing ever happened to me. If I was normal, then I could have a normal relationship with Kyle. I could support him and maybe he'd feel like he could talk to me… and maybe it's dumb to just be worrying about him and not enough about myself, but I can't help it."

"Is there anything you have in mind to help get you started with these changes?" Dr. Hightower asks, not judging.

"No," I murmur. "I wish I could just try exposure therapy, but I feel like that's the wrong route to go down."

"Why's that?"

"I can hardly say the word out loud," I murmur. "I feel like… if I showed myself to Kyle, his opinion of me would change. I mean, I have scars from the attack… and I don't want him to feel bad for me. I don't want him to think about me getting attacked when we're together like that…"

Dr. Hightower nods her head again, writing down some more notes. "It's not necessarily a bad thing to try, Stanley. Exposure therapy helps a lot of people. Just set up boundaries for yourself and perhaps start alone. When you involve Kyle, be sure he knows that you might want to stop suddenly."

"Start alone?" I question. "Like, touch myself?"

"Start slow," she says. "Perhaps first simply try staring at yourself in a mirror without judgement. When you get there, you can take it to the next step."

I frown, contemplating it. "Maybe… Maybe I'll try that."

* * *

When I finally get the house to myself, I decide to take a bath rather than a shower. I fill the tub with hot water and then sit in it. No book, no distractions, just me and the clear water. I lean back, staring down at my body – chest, nipples, arms, hands… stomach, penis, thighs, knees, calves, feet.

It's hard not to judge myself. It's hard not to think negative things. I want to bring my legs up towards my chest, but I refrain. It causes me to feel frustration – like I can't even do the simplest of tasks without getting emotional.

To top it all off, I have no self-esteem at all. I don't like what I see and my own body is triggering me worse than any object or word could.

I raise my hands and press my palms to my eyes, sniffling and trying to calm myself down. I feel tension in my arms and legs. It's making me want to curl my toes and scream angrily. God, this is pathetic.

I guess this is enough for one day.

After briskly washing myself, I pull the plug and stand up, grabbing a towel and graciously wrapping it around myself. I walk across the hall and sit on my bed, still wearing the towel around me like a fucking safety blanket.

I still feel anxious. I feel like I need to ground myself. I glance around the room, trying to take note of where I am and not let my mind wander to where I'm not.

I'm in my room.

I'm on my bed.

No one is here.

My carpets are beige.

My walls are brown.

There's a cork board on my wall.

There are photos and notes.

I stand up and wander towards it, staring at everything. There's pictures of me with my friends and notes people have written me to get me past my bad days.

There's one from Wendy that simply says _Hey, cutie-pants, don't forget I love you_ with a large heart. She wrote it last year. I remember her passing it to me in class. Apparently I looked like I was going to cry. I can't even remember why, but her note kind of eased me.

I'm lucky. I'm lucky to have her and Kyle and Kenny and my parents and my sister. All these people who love me and support me.

I let out a breath and finally decide to get dressed. I drop the towel and put on a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. With that, I log onto my computer and decide to check Facebook.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Hey.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Hi!

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: How was therapy?

STANLEY R. MARSH: It was a rough session.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I cried a lot.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Aw, why?

STANLEY R. MARSH: I just feel like I'm not making progress.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I want things to move quicker.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I want to be normal.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Yeah, these things take time :(

STANLEY R. MARSH: Too much time.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: But enough about that.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: How are you?

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: All right.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Cartman just left.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: You probably don't want to hear that though haha…  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Sorry.

STANLEY R. MARSH: It's okay.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: You can talk about it if you want.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Don't feel like you need to keep secrets.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: You can talk to me about anything.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Thanks.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I really appreciate that.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I guess it's just hard to talk about.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: It's easier to pretend it just isn't happening.

STANLEY R. MARSH: I know how you feel.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: It doesn't last, though.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Eventually you need to face it... though I still try not to.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Ha, yeah…  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I don't know what to do.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I'm beginning to think that all I can to do finish this is admit I cheated.

STANLEY R. MARSH: At least you'd be freed.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: In a sense.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I just don't want to get in trouble.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I don't want my parents to find out and kill me.

STANLEY R. MARSH: I know :(

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I'll sleep on it.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I feel like if I have to suck Cartman's dick one more time I'll literally lose my shit.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Ew :(

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Haha.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: This is going to sound mushy, but you make me happy.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I feel like I can actually get through the rough parts in my life with you at my side.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I'm really glad our relationship is progressing, but I'm happy to take it slow.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I don't care how slow.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: We can take forever.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: We don't need to get physical or anything, especially not any time soon.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I'm just happy standing beside you.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Aw… :)  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I was actually feeling a little down about that earlier, worrying that you'd get bored of me or something.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Never!

STANLEY R. MARSH: That makes me feel a lot better.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Good!

STANLEY R. MARSH: And for the record, I feel the same way.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I'm glad.

STANLEY R. MARSH: I took a bath earlier.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Really?  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I thought you hated baths.

STANLEY R. MARSH: I do.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I just wanted to try something new.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I wanted to see if I could handle seeing that much of myself for that long.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Were you okay?

STANLEY R. Marsh: Haha, no!  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I got anxious fast.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I'm sorry.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Take it slow.

STANLEY R. MARSH: That's the plan.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: And don't feel like you need to do it because of me.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Just do it for you.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Okay.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Still… someday I want to do it with you.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I want to do it with you, too, but I can wait.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Don't worry about it, Stan.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I want to take things slow.

STANLEY R. MARSH: So, does this mean we're official?  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I wanted to wait to ask you in person, but I'm impatient.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Haha, that's okay.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: What do you want us to be?

STANLEY R. MARSH: It'd be nice if we could be exclusive.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Okay, then let's do it.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I'll take you out on a date this weekend.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Haha, okay!

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Anyway, I'm gonna take a nap.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Bye!

STANLEY R. MARSH: Sleep well.

With that, I shut my computer and lean back against my pillow. I find myself smiling and it's a pretty weird feeling, but I actually feel a little bit giddy.

God, talk about fuckin' mood swings.

* * *

A couple weeks later, we make our relationship "Facebook official."

 **Kyle Broflovski** **is in a relationship with** **Stanley R. Marsh** **.**

 **Kenny McCormick** **,** **Leopold Butters Stotch** **,** **Bebe Stevens** **and** **104 others** **like this.**

My mom was happy when I told her. She was one of the first people I told. Next was my dad and Shelly. They all seemed happy for me. I think they were a little surprised, too.

Kyle's parents were okay with it, too, but they warned him not to let me distract him from studies. Ugh.

Kyle wasn't joking when he said we'd take it slow. We haven't even kissed and he hasn't pressured me at all. We've just been hanging out the way we normally do. I think he isn't mentioning it because he feels like he's cheating or something. I don't see it like that, but I do want Cartman out of the picture for Kyle's sake… though, I'll admit I do feel possessive, too.

Kyle is having a rough go of it lately. I think Cartman is really starting to get to him. Maybe his treatment is getting worse.

I'm at his house now and he's pretty emotional. School ended some hours ago and Kyle called me over around seven. I think Cartman was here earlier, but I don't want to ask.

We're sitting on his bed. His eyes are glazed over and he looks like he's trying to numb himself out. I know how he feels.

Kyle sniffs loudly, unceremoniously wiping his nose on his sleeve. "God, I can't fucking do this anymore…" he says in a voice hoarser than his usual tone.

"Then don't," I say. "Confess to cheating. They'll cancel the scores and you can retake the SATs. I looked it up, Kyle. It's not the end of the world."

He lets out a shuddery breath, pulling his knees up and perching his elbows on them. "I feel like I'm slowly but surely losing it," he says hoarsely, running his hands through his curly hair.

"Yeah," I murmur. "I know what that feels like… Just… just don't try to hurt yourself again… please?"

He smiles faintly and it's incredibly forced. "I won't. I've learned. Besides, I don't want to ditch you. You're one of the good things in my life."

"Likewise," I tell him.

"I really like you," he murmurs. "Hell, maybe I even love you, but I've never been in love so I don't know what it's supposed to feel like."

"What does it feel like?" I ask him, feeling a little bit nervous and anxious.

"I feel lighter when I'm with you," he says. "I feel like… I wanna keep you safe and shit. I care about you and your well-being a lot. Plus, I'm attracted to you. I wanna be with you and I'm glad we're together."

"I feel that way, too," I confess. "I love you."

Kyle smiles at that and this time it doesn't look so fake. Though his eyes re still red-rimmed and his cheeks are damp, he says, "I love you, too."

* * *

I see Craig and Jason speaking in the hallway and this time it doesn't look like they're arguing. I'll make a note to ask Craig about it later because we ALL know how nosy I am.

"What's up?" Kyle asks me when he notices me spacing out.

"Craig and Jason are talking again," I mention.

"So?"

"So, they had a falling out," I explain. "It'd be nice if they patched things up."

Kyle lets out a sigh. "Stan, you always do shit like this."

I frown at that as we stop in front of our lockers. "What?"

"Take a minute and stop concentrating solely on what everyone else is going through and struggling with," Kyle says. "Now… think about yourself for a minute. How do you feel?"

I feel my frown deepen. "Kyle, I don't want to think about myself right now."

"Well, you can't just keep ignoring all your problems and compensating for it by immersing yourself in the problems of others," he reasons.

"Whatever," I say. I don't like where the conversation is headed.

"Why do you drink so much?" Kyle asks.

I shrug my shoulders, contemplating the answer for a moment. "Well," I start, "if I'm to be honest… I drink a lot because it makes things easier to think about. I can think about what happened to me and it doesn't hurt as much. It makes me kind of numb to the memory, distant even… So I can contemplate it and go through the entire event, analyzing the details of it…"

"Why would you want to do that?" he pries, frowning.

"To understand, I suppose," I say. It's an answer that other people probably won't get. "You know, they were all drunk. I remember in the court room they kept saying that and their lawyers kept saying that… as though it'd make them less responsible for what they did to me. They were drunk and they smashed their beer bottles and they hit me with them… They did all this shit to me, but I wasn't drunk and even if I was that wouldn't matter. Still, sometimes I wish I was, then maybe I wouldn't remember or maybe it wouldn't have hurt as much."

"I'm sorry," Kyle says softly. "They're gone now."

I grit my teeth. "Sometimes I think about that… and I hope that they're experiencing in prison what they inflicted upon me in that empty hay field… but then I think about how it felt and I don't think I'd want anyone to experience that. Not even the worst people."

"You're too good," Kyle murmurs, taking my hand as we head to class.

* * *

I don't end up seeing Craig again, so I decide to message him via Facebook later in the evening after I eat dinner.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Hey!

CRAIG TUCKER: Hiii

STANLEY R. MARSH: At a risk of sounding like a stalker, I saw you and Jason talking.

CRAIG TUCKER: Haha, we were.  
CRAIG TUCKER: It was weird… I didn't expect him to talk to me.  
CRAIG TUCKER:Taunts are one thing, but he said something that actually mattered.  
CRAIG TUCKER: So, I finally forgave him.  
CRAIG TUCKER: We even talked about my eating disorder.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I guess he feels like part of it is his fault, but I told him that was fucking stupid.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Honestly, I don't know what made me this way… I guess it could be lots of reasons… but it's probably not because of him.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah…

CRAIG TUCKER: He apologized for being a jackass, for hitting me and for constantly telling me to eat more.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I think he used to do that to try and correct what he thought he did.

STANLEY R. MARSH: And you forgave him?

CRAIG TUCKER Yeah, it was easier than I thought it'd be… probably 'cause a lot of time has passed.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Happy to hear.

CRAIG TUCKER: So, what about you?  
CRAIG TUCKER: How are you?

STANLEY R. MARSH: Okay!  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Kyle says I'm too nosy.

CRAIG TUCKER: You are a bit nosy.

STANLEY R. MARSH: I know haha.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Kyle thinks I should concentrate less on others and more on myself.

CRAIG TUCKER: What do YOU think?

STANLEY R. MARSH: He's probably right.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I think I often use other people as distractions.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: That's not to say I don't want to help people, though.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I do.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: But I also revel in the fact that it's about someone else's problem for once and not mine.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: People are always always always making it about me.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I get sick of it.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Sometimes I want distractions from my own problems.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: And if I can be distracted while helping someone else, then that's okay.

CRAIG TUCKER: As long as you're not neglecting yourself.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Kyle probably thinks you are.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Haha, yeah I think he does.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: But I don't feel like I am.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I feel like I've been making better progress now.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: My therapist is helping.

CRAIG TUCKER: How?

STANLEY R. MARSH: This is gonna sound lame but I'm kind of trying to just get used to my own body again.

CRAIG TUCKER: It doesn't sound dumb.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I can understand.  
CRAIG TUCKER: My body kind of triggers me sometimes.

STANLEY R. MARSH: I feel that, too.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: It's hard to see myself, especially naked.

CRAIG TUCKER: Yeah, I get that.

STANLEY R. MARSH: How do you cope?

CRAIG TUCKER: Poorly lol.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I try to avoid scales.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah…

CRAIG TUCKER: What about you?

STANLEY R. MARSH: I've just been spending more time with myself.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Like, in a naked sense.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Just staring at myself.

CRAIG TUCKER: Has it helped?

STANLEY R. MARSH: I don't really know.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I feel like I can stand to stare at myself for longer periods…  
STANLEY R. MARSH: But I want to be able to be naked with someone else.

CRAIG TUCKER: Kyle?

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I want to EVENTUALLY sleep with him…

CRAIG TUCKER: Yeah.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I have a lot of times where I've got a NO-SEX zone up because I feel so shitty about myself.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I feel like it frustrates Kenny, though he won't admit it.  
CRAIG TUCKER: He's patient.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I know I should try to better myself for my own sake, but I also want to do it for Kyle.

CRAIG TUCKER: I don't think that's a bad thing as long as you're also doing it for yourself.

STANLEY R. MARSH: True.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I just feel like everything I do is stupid.

CRAIG TUCKER: Why?

STANLEY R. MARSH: Because they're all such desperate attempts.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: It sounds so dumb.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: It's so stereotypical of me.

CRAIG TUCKER: Don't look at it like that.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Just look at it like you're testing the waters, seeing what works for you.

STANLEY R. MARSH: I guess so.

CRAIG TUCKER: This is going to sound bad, but I feel better having sex when I'm drunk.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I feel like I worry less… and I know that's such a bad habit, but it's true.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Ahh…  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Does Kenny know?

CRAIG TUCKER: Yeah, I told him.  
CRAIG TUCKER: That's why we haven't been having sex lol.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Aw, I'm sorry…

CRAIG TUCKER: Yeah, so am I lol.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Do you go to therapy?

CRAIG TUCKER: Yeah, I do group on Tuesday evenings.  
CRAIG TUCKER: It sucks and I fucking hate it.  
CRAIG TUCKER: My therapist thought it would be good for my anxiety.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Being in a group makes things harder, though, so I don't say much.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah, I'd imagine…  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I do therapy on Wednesdays.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Thankfully it isn't group.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I just go by myself, but I brought Kyle in with me once and other times my parents or sister.

CRAIG TUCKER: Do you find it hard to talk when you're with other people?

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah, kind of.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I feel like I need to censor myself, in a way.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I also feel more shame.

CRAIG TUCKER: Yeah, I feel that.  
CRAIG TUCKER: I'm the only guy in my group.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Aw…

CRAIG TUCKER: It makes me feel kind of…  
CRAIG TUCKER: Fuck, I don't even know.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Just weird, like I can relate a little less?

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah :(

CRAIG TUCKER: Oh, well.  
CRAIG TUCKER: Anyway I'm going to Kenny's.  
CRAIG TUCKER: He needs math help lol.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Haha okay!  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Bye.

CRAIG TUCKER: Byeee.

After that, I close my laptop and decide to take a bath. Halfway through, Shelly interrupts and starts banging on the door.

"Open up, Stan!" she calls. "I need to get ready for work!"

I let out a sigh, pulling the plug. I wrap a large towel around myself and then open the door.

"You were taking a bath?" Shelly asks me, looking surprised.

"Yeah," I say. "Trying…"

She smiles faintly. "Sorry to interrupt."

I just shrug and wander into my room. I close and lock the door, drying off and then dropping the towel. I stare at the lengthy mirror hanging on my door and watch my reflection. I hold my arms our at my sides and then turn around.

It does get easier.

Slowly, but surely.

I just hope nothing happens to hinder what little progress I've made.

* * *

Kyle tries to break things off with Cartman in one final, desperate attempt, but it doesn't work. So, now he knows what has to be done. He has to make a confession.

After school, I walk with him to the principal's office and he says what he needs to say while I wait outside. I fidget, silently praying that he won't get in too much trouble. I don't want his entire future to be ruined because of a momentary indiscretion. It's not that he can't do it. He was just too scared. Hopefully the teachers will know that, too.

Eventually, a group of people on suits walk inside and I can't help but wonder if they're on the board of education or something. They're probably going to grill Kyle.

He stays in there for a while and I try to be patient, but I'm getting impatient. I pull out my phone and try to play around on it, distracting myself for as long as I can. When Kyle finally leaves, he looks drained.

"What happened?" I ask, standing up immediately.

Kyle lets out a long, weary sigh. "They called my dad and my dad told them I was struggling with depression and that I tried to kill myself and all this other bad shit to try and get me out of it."

"Did it work?" I pry.

He smiles wearily. "Yeah, I guess so… They're going to cancel my previous score and let me retake it."

I smile back. "Do you feel better?"

He lets out a short laugh and then he starts sobbing out of the blue. I don't ask him why, even though it confuses me. I just wrap my arms around his waist. Maybe he's overwhelmed. Maybe these are happy tears. Maybe he's relieved. Maybe he feels freed. I don't know.

After a few minutes, he pulls away and swipes at his cheeks. Then we walk home, since we missed the bus. I hold his hand in mine and we're silent.

"How do you feel?" I ask him when we near his house.

"Worried," he admits. "I'm kind of trying to prepare myself to face my parents' wrath."

I smile faintly. "Maybe they won't be mad."

He snorts at that. "Yeah, I can hope."

Soon, we're at the bottom of his driveway. He lets go of my hand and then holds it up, offering me a wave.

"Wait," I say. I inch closer and then stand on my tip-toes, pecking him on the lips.

He smiles and says, "I'll call you later."

I smile back and say, "Deal."

I watch him go inside before continuing home. I sincerely hope his parents don't give him a hard time. I think if they do he'll only be more upset about the whole thing.

He made a mistake.

Everyone makes mistakes - especially when they're afraid - and I think that as long as he isn't causing another person pain, then he should be allowed to move on with his life.

Cartman, on the other hand, needs to be punished… but I doubt he ever will be. He gets away with everything. It's always been that way.

* * *

Around 8PM, Kyle rings me up and decides to tell me how it all went down once he got home.

" _I actually feel kind of good_ ," he admits. " _I mean, my parents weren't even that mad. I expected them to, like, rip me a new one… but they didn't. They kind of sat me down and we talked about why I felt the need to cheat. I told them that they put too much pressure on me and I felt like it was the only way to guarantee a good score. Ike was there and he kind of backed me up_."

"Good!" I exclaim, feeling happy for him.

I hear him laugh and then say, " _Yeah. I ended up telling them about the blackmail. I didn't say exactly what it entailed or who it was 'cause I kind of want to try and move past it… They tried prying, but I didn't want to talk. I think they had a hard time being angry at me after that. Plus, I squeezed out a few tears mostly for show."_

"Aw…" I murmur, sympathizing. I know how hard it can be to tell people about shit like that.

" _It's for the best_ ," Kyle says. _"You were right. I mean, it was hard… but I guess it was worth it. I should have done it sooner. I wish I hadn't let Cartman do all that shit to me… he's such a sick fuck_."

"Yeah," I agree bitterly. "I hate him."

 _"Me, too… I don't think I'll ever be able to look at him as long as I live. He'll never say sorry and even if he does, he won't mean it. He has no empathy."_

"Yeah," I agree again.

" _I'm a hot mess_ ," he says with finality, laughing at himself. " _Everyone fucking knows it."_

"Let's kill Cartman," I decide jokingly.

I hear him laugh again. " _Okay_."

* * *

The following morning, shit goes down at school when Kyle begins ignoring Cartman. Fat-ass doesn't seem to appreciate it.

"Fine, ignore me," he snaps loudly, grabbing the attention of some nearby students. "But you can't ignore the fact that I've been balls deep in your ass and you _loved_ it, you faggy fuck."

I guess Cartman isn't finished tormenting Kyle. Since Kyle isn't going to be there to use and abuse, Cartman wants to make sure that everyone in the school knows that he used to be.

I fucking hate him so much.

Kyle flushes, spinning around and shoving Cartman. "That's a lie!" His voice is shaking.

"I think we all know it's not," Cartman snorts.

With that, Kyle raises his fists and whirls them at Cartman's face. Then they start duking it out. They haven't fought like this since they were ten years old. This is scarier to watch because they aren't little kids anymore.

"Stop!" I shout pleadingly, but it's lost to their ears. I inch closer and try to pull Kyle away, but Cartman ends up accidentally elbowing me in the gut. I fall backwards and Kyle just gets angrier.

Token appears and helps me up before prying Kyle away from the fat-ass. Kyle shakes Token off and approaches me, asking if I'm alright. I insist I'm fine and I drag him away from the scene before a teacher shows up.

"Everyone is gonna know," he mumbles.

I frown at that. "Maybe…" I say, not bothering to sugar-coat the possibility.

"God," he moans, holding his head. "I feel like I'm fucking losing my mind…"

"I don't get why he would want people to know," I muse. "I mean… he took advantage of you… Some people are probably going to be able to piece that together."

Kyle lets out an angry laugh. "Not if he's telling everyone how much I 'LIKED' it..."

"I get what you're going through," I remind him. "So, you can talk to me."

"I don't wanna, like, trigger you…" he murmurs. "Besides, our situations are pretty different…"

"It's okay," I tell him. "I want you to feel like you can tell me anything. Blackmail isn't consent. It's a trap. Cartman fucking knew what he was doing to you and that makes him just as bad as any other rapist pig."

"Hm…" he mumbles. "I don't really want to look at it like that, y'know…?"

"Yeah," I say softly, grabbing his hand. "I can understand that."

No one really wants to admit that something that shitty happened to them. It's hard to admit to yourself, let alone out loud. If my story never went public, I would probably have kept the whole thing to myself, too. I feel like that would have been at least a little easier. For a while, that is… but things always have a way of piling up and blowing up in my face. Denial isn't a permanent state. It only lasts to long. Then it's hard to keep pretending.

Instead of heading to English class, Kyle decides to skip and I skip with him. We head to the back of the school and he takes out a cigarette.

"I wish you'd quit," I mutter.

He smiles faintly. "Yeah, I should probably try to… but I'm always stressed out and quitting would make it worse."

"Yeah," I say, unable to disagree.

"What do you think people are saying about me?" he wonders, blowing smoke in the direction of the wind so it doesn't get in my face.

"They're probably saying more about Cartman than you," I say. "He made himself look like a douche… and I think most people are going to agree that he's shit for making a private thing public. The people who laugh at you are just as bad as he is. I think people are mostly just surprised. "

"I had a choice," he murmurs hazily. "I mean, I always had a choice…"

"Not a very good one," I argue cautiously.

"Still…" he says. "I could've stopped it sooner. I just didn't want to admit I was a cheating piece of shit. Giving Cartman sexual favours seemed like the lesser of two shitty choices."

"Yeah," I whisper. I don't bother trying to argue any more. If Kyle wants to say that he did consent to it, then that's his choice. I guess it's how he's choosing to cope.

Kyle lets out a bitter laugh. "Y'know, he'd always fucking take photos and then send them to me via Snapchat. I don't think he saved any. I think he just wanted me to have to relive all the humiliation after the deed itself was done."

"That's so fucked up," I mutter.

Kyle nods his head. "Mhm… he's twisted."

I let out a breath. "This probably sounds like a pretty macabre question, but what were you thinking when you tried to kill yourself?"

He smiles faintly. "I was thinking… I was miserable. I felt trapped. I felt lonely…."

"What triggered it?" I pry.

"Well, it was after I cheated on the SATs," he says with another bitter laugh. "My parents wouldn't shut up about it. They made me study like crazy and when my test scores came back, they seemed so fucking proud. They wouldn't shut up about that, either… and it made me feel guilty. I felt like a failure and a liar. Then Cartman approached me and he said that he knew and then he propositioned me. Initially, I recoiled and said no… but he was persuasive. He said he'd tell the school and the school would tell my parents. So, I got on my knees and gave him a blowjob. First time I did it and he said I sucked at it and it made me feel so disgusted with myself…" He rolls his eyes at himself. "Anyway, I went home and tried to kill myself."

"Jesus," I whisper. "I'm really sorry, Kyle…"

"Hah… yeah, so am I," he mumbles. "All of this could have been avoided if I didn't cheat. Sometimes I feel like I fucking deserved it. What goes around comes around…"

"You didn't deserve that," I try to reassure him.

He lets out a sharp sigh before taking one last puff of his cigarette and tossing it into a snowbank. "Whatever," he declares. "I'll try to move on."

"Yeah… it's all you really can do after something shitty happens," I murmur. "Just don't force yourself."

* * *

After that, we head to my house since no one is home and we won't get in shit for skipping. Oh, well. It's not like we do this often.

We watch Netflix and sit with our shoulders touching, but nothing more.


	5. I want to show myself to you

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **To the anonymous review I got that told me my writing is repetitive: Yeah, it sounds like I'm just re-telling the same story a million times, but I know that. Here, I write to cope with my own issues as I've said before.** **That isn't to say I'm not up to hearing suggestions for new themes people would like to see me explore.** **I write for myself and it's cool that other people like it and relate to it, but if they don't then that's fine, too. I'm not forcing you to read it, so if you're bored then you can move on. Writing about it makes me feel better and I know I can do these issues justice. It's an outlet that I lack in other parts in my life, especially considering that I don't go to therapy anymore.**

 **Little known fact, I do write original work - I have three stories in the works, all of which is drastically different than the fanfiction I write. One is surrealism (with a lot of strange stuff), one is fantasy (demons, magic, gore, dun dun dun) and one is weird a mix of supernatural/sci-fi (ooh, with ghosts and dimension jumping).**

 **It took a LOT for me to actually start posting my fics online because I'm an overly anxious person. That's also why I have a harder time letting things go and why I feel like I need to always explain myself (like now lmao). I pretty much feel nauseous every time I see a new review on one of my stories because I always expect it to be bad. Usually it's not tho haha and nice reviews make it worthwhile. I really enjoy sharing.**

 **I repeat these kinds of themes for my fanfiction because fanfiction is my outlet. Here, it's somewhat anonymous. If I were to publish a real book exploring these things, then it would be less anonymous and it would feel like telling a secret to everyone in the world with my name attached.**

 **Sorry for the annoying, petty rant LOL I would have responded privately but you can't do that with anons. Thanks if anyone actually read it :b**

 **Anyway,** **last chapter before the epilogue~**

* * *

Kyle retakes the test and ends up getting the same score that he got when he cheated.

"I fucking hate myself," he says, laughing bitterly about it. "I literally feel like all of this was for nothing."

"I'm sorry," I offer sincerely.

"I don't fucking know what to do," he murmurs.

"Try to look at the bright side," I say, though it sounds stupid.

He lets out a breath. "Well, I guess my parents are being easier on me now…" A pause. "That's all I can think of…"

* * *

On Wednesday, I tell Dr. Hightower that Kyle ended up telling the truth and that he didn't get in as much trouble as he thought he would for it.

"He retook the test and got the same score," I add. "He's coming down pretty hard on himself because he feels like everything he went through happened for nothing and could have been avoided if he had more faith in himself… I don't really know what to tell him."

"That's a difficult situation," Dr. Hightower says. "There isn't very much you can do. It's something he'll have to learn how to cope with."

"He's been feeling really low lately," I murmur. "I'm worried he'll do something about it… like, hurt himself somehow… I don't know. I'm always worrying about that. I don't want him to do anything bad."

Dr. Hightower nods her head. "You know, Stanley, you're more than welcome to bring him in again. Or I could schedule an appointment to talk to him separately – no charge."

"You'd do that?" I ask.

She nods her head again. "He seems important to you and if he's struggling, I'd like to try and help."

* * *

After dinner, I throw on my PJs and then decide to message Kyle via Facebook since I'm worried about him lately.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Hey, are you doing okay?

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: No.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Wanna talk?

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Bleh…  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I just feel like SHIT.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: You know when people keep messaging me asking me if I'm okay.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Sorry…

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: No, I don't mean you.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I just mean random people I don't even talk to.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Maybe they're hoping I'll open up to them and tell them what they're probably dying to know.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Ignore them.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I am.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Ugh I feel so ashamed of myself.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Yeah :(  
STANLEY R. MARSH: Wanna spend the night at my house?

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: Haha, are you worried I'll try to hurt myself?

STANLEY R. MARSH: Nooo.  
STANLEY R. MARSH: I just think you could do with a distraction.

KYLE BROFLOVSKI: All right.  
KYLE BROFLOVSKI: I'll see you in a few.

STANLEY R. MARSH: Ok!

Me and Kyle haven't had a sleepover in a long time – especially not one with just the two of us. In the past, we've crashed drunk at one another's houses with some other friends… but that doesn't really count. This time, there's no liquor and it's just me and him. Plus… we're together now.

It doesn't take him long to ring the bell before simply swinging open the front door.

"UP HERE!" I call, closing my laptop and setting it on my desk.

When he enters my bedroom, I take in his appearance with a gracious smile.

"Hey," he says, smiling back.

"Hey," I echo.

He's also wearing his PJs – grey sweatpants and a plain, red tee. He drops his overnight bag on the floor and then moves forward to peck me on the lips. It's quick and chaste, the way all of our kisses are.

"Your mom doesn't mind me staying over?"

"Of course not," I say. "And, no, she isn't going to force you into the guest room, either."

"Okay," he chuckles. "Hey, this will be our first official sleepover in a while."

"I know," I say. "It's been a long time."

I turn on the lamp on my nightstand and turn off the main light fixture, causing the room to grow dim. I sit on my bed and pat the spot next to me, wordlessly telling Kyle to sit. When he does, I say, "How would you feel about coming back to therapy with me?"

"Sure," he says. "It was helpful the first time."

"Dr. Hightower said that she'd even be happy to see you alone," I add.

"Well… I don't know about that," Kyle murmurs. "I'll think about it. Maybe a session or two would help…"

"Yeah," I agree. "Sleep on it."

"I will," he promises.

I lie down and he lies next to me so we're side-by-side, staring up at the ceiling aimlessly.

"What are people saying when they message you?" I pry.

He sighs. "They say things like, 'I heard what Cartman did,' and then they ask if I'm okay… and I guess it just rubs me the wrong way since I'm not friends with half the people asking. Like, they seem so nosy. It's none of their fucking business…"

"Yeah," I murmur in agreement. "That's annoying…"

"I don't know what to do…" he groans.

"I wish I could give you some sort of advice…" I say. "All I can say is that you're not alone. I mean… I may not know exactly what you're feeling, but I know what it's like to experience something shitty and then have it fucking broadcasted like that…"

"Yeah," Kyle responds quietly. He sniffles a bit, but he doesn't cry. "I feel like we just… really _get_ one another."

"I feel that way, too," I say.

"You're, like, my soul-mate," he adds with a laugh. "Does that sound cheesy as hell?"

"No, I like it," I say, laughing with him. "I think we belong together."

"Me, too," he says softly.

We continue to talk and he smiles a little. As the night goes on, he seems to lighten.

Around 10PM, we get up and move across the hall – brushing our teeth. Afterward, Kyle stands over the toilet with his back facing me and urinates. It makes me feel stupidly shy, though there's nothing sexual about what he's doing. I glance away and stare at myself in the mirror. I feel myself zone out for a second, but the sound of the toilet flushing brings me back to reality. I move aside and Kyle washes his hands.

"You good?" he asks me.

"Mhm," I mumble.

He heads back into my room, leaving me alone to pee. I do so promptly and when that's taken care of I join Kyle in my bedroom. By now, he's lying down under the covers. I crawl in with him and lie down.

I hear him yawn. "Fuck, I'm tired… I haven't been sleeping well."

"Why?" I pry.

"Stress," he admits.

"Oh…" I say sadly.

"It's okay," he insists. "Don't worry about it."

I perch myself up on an elbow and ask, "Can I try something?"

"Sure," I hear him reply.

With my other hand, I place a palm on his cheek. Then I slowly lean down, pressing my lips to his. This time, the kiss is different. I open my mouth, allowing him in, but only briefly. When I pull away, I lie back down.

"Was that okay?" I ask him.

"Hell yeah," he says.

I smile faintly, though he can't see it. I close my eyes and inch closer to him, resting my head against his side as he stretches an arm around me.

"Goodnight," I murmur groggily.

"Goodnight," he echoes.

* * *

Come morning, I wake up first. I crawl over Kyle and get out of bed, moving across the hall to use the bathroom. Afterwards, I head downstairs.

"Is Kyle all right?" my mom immediately pries from her spot at the kitchen table. She's sitting with my dad and they're drinking their morning coffee. Shelly is probably still asleep from her late shift at the bar.

"Just a little down," I say. "Hope it's okay he slept over."

"Of course," Dad tells me.

"He's always welcome," Mom adds.

I grab a pear in the fridge and then get a cup of water before heading back upstairs. I sit at my desk, trying to be quiet as I eat.

Kyle is still dead to the world. It's only 7AM, though. I hope he sleeps for a little while longer, especially since he said he hasn't been sleeping well. Guess I don't blame him for that. A lot of shit has happened to him this year.

I check my emails and then I check Facebook and then I check the school's homework page, seeing if there is anything I need to get done.

I have an essay to write, but I can do that in an hour on my free period. I guess it's bad that I don't put much effort into school, but compared to other things, it doesn't seem to be as important. It takes a backseat.

After eating, I close my laptop. I bring the apple core and empty water glass downstairs and then I decide to get dressed for the day. I put on jeans and a sweater in the bathroom, brushing my teeth once I'm done. Then I return to my room.

Around 8AM, Kyle stirs and his eyes flutter open.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," he echoes groggily. "What time is it?"

"Early," I tell him. "We have an hour 'til class."

"Good," he murmurs, forcing himself up. "Thanks for last night," he says. "You made me feel a lot better than I felt earlier."

"I'm glad," I say sincerely as he stands up and stretches. "Want coffee or anything to eat?" I offer.

"Coffee would be good," he answers. "I'm kinda groggy. I'm gonna wash my face first, though. I'll be down in a few minutes."

"Okay."

I grab my school things and then head back into the kitchen. By now, my parents are gone. I fill Kyle a thermos of coffee and then wait.

He appears after a moment, wearing the same clothes he slept in.

"Here," I hand him the thermos.

"Thanks," he says.

We put on our shoes and coats before leaving. Since we still have some time, we decide to walk rather than wait for the bus.

"Sleep okay?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "I always sleep pretty well at your house. Your house is comfortable… and so are you."

I smile at that, taking his hand in mine.

* * *

Our entire group of friends is excluding Cartman. He doesn't seem to give a rat's ass, though. He's been hanging around Bill and Fosse a lot lately and they're just as horrible as he is.

When free period arrives, Kyle and I head to the library to work on our essays. I write mine sloppily, while Kyle is a lot more precise with his. He looks like he's really concentrating on it. Maybe he feels like there is no room to slip up, especially now that he came out about cheating on his SATs.

Hopefully the universities don't find out about it. If they do, his acceptance might be revoked. I don't really know how that stuff works, but nothing has happened so far, so he's probably in the safe zone.

"Kyle," I say his name.

"Hm?" he mumbles, not bothering to glance away from his laptop.

"You'll be majoring in Statistics, right?" I start. "What do you want to do career-wise?"

He lets out a sigh. "I want to be a Statistical Analyst."

"Holy shit," I say. "What the fuck is that?"

He chuckles at me, finally glancing up. "To try and put it simply, I'll be analysing numeric data and trying to design models and make sure that the data is reliable. I want to specialize in marketing."

"Huh…" I murmur.

He smiles faintly before glancing back down at his laptop and typing away. "I feel like as long as I am out of this town for a while and forced to concentrate on something, then I'll be all right. I like math because there is no maybe. It's just right or wrong. Factual. There's less room for interpretation, unlike in writing"

"Yeah," I say, understanding where he's coming from.

I guess it's nice to hear him talk about his future with confidence. It's nice to hear that he thinks he HAS a future. He never used to.

* * *

English is our last class of the day we pass in our essays and then take our usual seats.

Cartman sits on the opposite side of the room. He hasn't tried to give Kyle any shit so far today. Hopefully it'll stay that way.

I don't know what else he could possibly do. I'm going to be optimistic and choose to hope that this is finally over and that he's finally going to fuck off.

Kyle doesn't bother sparing him a glance. He just keeps his head in front and pays attention to the teacher.

* * *

Things have been oddly quiet lately, but I'm trying to revel and not take advantage of it because I know it probably won't last. Still, it'd be nice if it did. It feels peaceful.

I managed to jerk off the other night, which sounds fucking dumb - definitely not like an accomplishment of an sort. I felt kind of nasty afterwards, but I tried to remind myself that I don't have to feel that way. I have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about.

Kyle seems happier lately, which is refreshing. He smiles more lately. I think he's trying hard to move on. He's probably really damn glad that all the shit is over so he CAN move on. It's hard to move on when you're still stuck in a bad situation.

Today, he's coming to therapy with me.

He picks me up in his mom's car and we drive to the mental health center. The drive is quiet. I think Kyle feels a bit nervous since he'll be a more active part of the session this time.

I let out a breath and say, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says, giving me a quick side glance and smiling. "Just… pensive, I suppose."

"You don't need to worry about what you're going to say," I tell him. "She's going to be asking questions to guide the session, just like last time."

He simply nods his head.

When we pull into the parking lot and park the car, we move into the hospital and walk to the third floor. We sit in the waiting room for a few minutes until the clock strikes the next hour and we're called in.

We pile into the office, sitting on the sofa.

"Hi, boys," Dr. Hightower greets us.

"Hi," I echo, while Kyle simply nods his head.

"So, Kyle, today we'll be talking about you," she starts.

"Yeah, I guess so," he says.

"Now, I went over your medical history," she says, "and you've never tried any kind of medication?"

"I didn't want to," Kyle admits, "but I don't know now… I only saw a doctor when I was an in-patient. That was just for a few days after my hospitalization, though. I refused medications… but I guess that's stupid because I've been self-medicating ever since which is probably a hell of a lot worse."

"How do you self-medicate?"

"Weed, cocaine…" he says with a shrug.

I know he avoids alcohol because of me.

"What is your sleep schedule like?"

"All over the place," he murmurs.

"I'd recommend getting yourself back on schedule," Dr. Hightower suggests. "A healthy sleeping schedule helps with moods and won't worsen your dysthymia."

"What else helps?" Kyle urges.

"Psychotherapy is the most effective treatment," she explains. "An SSRI will also help you to feel more like yourself again."

"Hm," Kyle muses. "I just feel a lot worse lately… It's been a rough year."

"Let's talk about that," Dr. Hightower starts.

"Stan probably told you a lot of stuff," Kyle assumes, "and that's fine. Basically this asshole we know blackmailed me and made me do some shit I didn't want to do. I cheated on my SATs and he found out… So, yeah. Eventually I just decided to come out and admit I cheated. Then he decided to come out and admit that I let him fuck me up the ass."

I can't help but wince at that.

I notice Kyle's jaw tighten. "I just… I really hate him and I feel sick when I have to see him," he murmurs. "I've been thinking about changing schools…" He pauses and glances at me. "I never told you, but I registered late for a few other universities. I just found out that I got into all of them…"

I make an 'o' shape with my mouth. "That would be good, right…?"

"I'd be away from Cartman," he murmurs. "It just sucks that I have to be the one to forego going to the school I was set on. I wish he'd decide to go somewhere else instead…"

"Yeah," I say quietly.

"Kyle," Dr. Hightower cuts in, "how do you feel when you see Cartman?"

He shrugs. "Ashamed, humiliated, embarrassed… all that shit."

"And Stan, how do you feel?"

"Angry," I say. "I want someone to punish him. He's done a lot of bad things and he always seems to get away with it. It's not fair."

Dr. Hightower scribbles down some shit in her clipboard. I'm constantly wondering what kinds of things she's writing, but I know she isn't allowed to say.

The conversation switches towards Kyle's home life, his school life, his relationship with me, his relationship with our other friends. When the topic changes towards his he feels about himself, he starts getting emotional. I recognize the look on his face. He'll probably start crying any minute, but right now he's trying hard not to.

He rolls his eyes. "I put too much pressure on myself because my parents put too much pressure on me. I'm a perfectionist, but I have no faith in myself. Nothing I do seems like enough."

Dr. Hightower nods and then asks, "Do you feel like you've been invalidated?"

"I guess, yeah," Kyle says. "Um…" he continues, "I guess… that I don't like myself very much. I always see that quote that says if you don't love yourself then you can't expect anyone else to love you… and I kind of agree with it to an extent, but it also makes me feel really bad."

I'm about to cut in, but I stop myself because I don't know what to say.

"Do you feel like you aren't good enough?" Dr. Hightower probes.

"Yeah," Kyle confesses. His eyes are glazed over. "Uh, I feel like… I'm not worth anything…" When he blinks, the first tear falls. "Damn it," he says to himself.

"Want me to leave?" I ask quietly.

Kyle shakes his head, raising a hand to swipe at his cheeks.

I slide the tissue box towards him and he takes one.

Dr. Hightower looks expectantly sympathetic. "Do you feel guilt?"

"All the time," Kyle admits. "Not just 'cause I cheated and made things shitty for myself… but even over dumb shit."

"Like what, for example?" she pries.

"Like… when something bad happens to me and other people are affected, I always end up feeling bad for them. I hardly ever feel bad FOR myself. I just feel bad in general."

"And what do you do to cope with this?"

Kyle scoffs at himself. "Well, I tried to kill myself."

"Have you hurt yourself since then?"

"Yeah," he mutters and it causes an unpleasant twist in my gut. He glances at me and lets out a sigh, saying, "I don't know how much of me you saw when I was with Cartman… but I'm pretty messed up."

I frown at that and I feel my eyebrows draw together. "What…?"

He sighs again, sounding hopeless. "I started s-self-harming a while back," he admits, sounding very quiet.

"What?" I choke out.

How did he hide a thing like this from me?

"Christ," he whispers, taking a deep breath and moving his hands through his hair. He looks and sounds distressed. "Okay," he starts again, "I've just been really stressed out and it's not like I'm trying to kill myself. I'm just… I can't fucking _breathe_."

"I didn't know," I whisper.

I wish he'd just fucking TELL me this shit, but he feels like I can't handle it. He keeps it all to himself.

He sniffles, slumping forward. "I'm sorry," he says. "You're probably disappointed."

"No," I tell him. "I'm not."

"I hate disappointing people," he murmurs.

"Kyle, I'm not disappointed…" I reiterate. "Even if you don't like yourself, I like you. In fact, I love you. I don't think that saying is concrete. I think it's situational. It depends what kind of person you are… and I can still love you."

"I'm trying…" he says hoarsely.

"I know you are," I reply.

* * *

At the end of the session, Dr. Hightower writes down the titles of some books she recommends that Kyle reads. Knowing him, he'll actually go out and buy them. She also tells Kyle that she wants to start seeing him regularly. So, they set a date for private sessions.

Kyle is still a hot mess. It's weird seeing him so emotional. He does his messier crying once we get in the car. I put a hand on his shoulder and try to ease him, but we're in a cramped car, so it's kind of hard. He sobs in the parking lot for what feels like an hour. His forehead is pressed against the steering wheel and it sounds like he's grieving.

When he finally does calm down, I decide to be the first to talk. "I thought you were doing better," I admit.

He lets out a bitter, angry laugh as he sits back. "I've been overcompensating." He doesn't bother wiping his eyes. Instead, he starts the car and pulls out of the lot.

I wish Kyle would fucking talk to me. Knowing that he feels like he can't makes me wonder if we'll last. Communication is key, right? Well, apparently we don't have as much as I thought we did.

We head to Kyle's house and his mom asks him how his "meeting" went. He says it was fine, even though his eyes are still swollen. We don't linger after that. We just head straight for his bedroom.

"Kyle," I say his name. "We need to talk more… I mean, we won't last if we don't talk. You can't keep all these secrets and bottle up your emotions like that. It's not healthy and, honestly, it makes me feel like you pity me."

He lets out a sharp sigh. "I'm just not used to it," he says "It's really fucking hard for me to say I feel beyond miserable."

"I know…" I sympathize, "and I'm not trying to rush you or force you, but I do feel like we need to take a step towards better communication."

"You're right," he mumbles. "I'm gonna try harder."

* * *

Cartman continues to mind his own business. Kyle probably finds immense relief in that. He has been doing therapy weekly, just like me. He's also on a medication, just like me.

It's late now. It's a school night, so I should be in bed… but my thoughts kept me awake like they often do. I'm sitting in the kitchen. I just made tea. I'm trying to stay quiet so I don't wake my parents, though I don't really want to be alone. I hate being alone with my thoughts. I feel like it's a toxic combination because I'm not at a point in my life where I can truly trust myself yet.

Around 1AM, the door opens. Shelly enters the kitchen and jumps when she spots me at the table. "Shit!" she hisses, letting out a breath and putting a hand on her chest. "Damn, Stan… Why are you awake?"

"Can't sleep," I tell her.

She moves towards the kettle and pours herself a cup of tea before joining me, sitting across from me. "So, what's wrong?" she asks. "You're up late."

"I feel like shit," I admit.

"Why?" she questions.

"I wish I was normal," I murmur vaguely.

"I think that's your problem, Stan," Shelly says. "You keep wishing for things to be another way and it's not helping. You can't just make a wish and change the past. You gotta make do with what you have, even if it's not fair."

I can't deny that she's right.

"I'm sorry you were hurt," she continues. "There's no excuse for it and it's not okay… but they're locked away now and they can't hurt you. You're doing well. You're making progress, even if you don't feel like you are."

"Really…?" I murmur.

"Really," she insists. "Usually I'd say try to look on the bright side of things… but sometimes it's honestly fuckin' impossible. I wish I could say something that was more helpful, but…"

"It's hard to know what to say," I finish for her. "I understand."

"How are things with Kyle?" she asks out of the blue.

"Good," I tell her. "We did therapy together. It was sad and hard, but I think it'll bring us closer. He's always so good to me. He helps me and he's there for me and I want to be there for him, but he feels like he's not worth the effort. I don't understand it."

"He's always been too hard on himself," Shelly muses. "It was obvious that it'd eventually mess him up a bit."

"Everyone seems to be a little messed up," I say.

"Everyone is," Shelly agrees. "Everyone has their own struggles. The only reason you notice it is because you're so busy avoiding your own shit."

I nod my head lazily.

Trust me, I fucking know. I've made enough of that my business this year. Craig, Jason, Kenny, Wendy… Kyle. I like to imagine that I've at least eased them all in the slightest amount. I feel like Kenny and Craig are good together. They seem happy. Like me and Kyle, they both have their own struggles… but I think they can work through them.

It's funny, in a sad way, how much we have in common. It seems like all the bad things. It's a tragic kind of comfort to know that you're not alone.

* * *

Now all I can do is concentrate on myself and that seems like the scariest thing in the world.

It's Friday night.

Right now I'm sitting in a bar – not the one my sister works at, but a shittier one that doesn't check for IDs.

I haven't yet ordered a drink. I'm hesitating. Since my latest relapse, I've been sober for some weeks, but it doesn't seem like much at all, so here I am about to throw it away.

Eventually, someone sits down next to me, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"You okay, kid?" he asks me.

I glance over and see that it's Carl Denkins, the old dairy farmer who saved my life those years back.

I let out a bitter laugh, staring down out of nervousness. "No… I don't think I'll ever be completely okay…" I pause, forcing myself to look up at him. "But I want to be… so, thanks for saving my life."

He offers me a small smile. "Sure, kid. Need a ride home?"

I let out a shuddery breath and glance around the room – at the drunken men, the dancers, the girls in the corner laughing and looking like they're having a good time. None of it is me. Not anymore. I never knew how to pace myself. I never used alcohol to have a good time. I just used it to… stay numb.

I feel so out of place. So, I say, "Yeah, okay."

I feel proud when I get the words out. I feel more in-control than I did when I first stepped into the bar.

We stand and exit the pub, moving to his truck. As I sit in the passenger's seat, I can't help but remember the last time I was sitting in this exact spot. He probably needed to get the interior replaced. I know I made a mess.

When we pull into my driveway, Kyle is sitting on my front porch. Upon spotting me, he jumps up. I give Carl a sincere thank you and then leave the car. Kyle immediately hugs me.

"I was worried!" he exclaims. "No one was at your house and I didn't know where you were."

"I'm sorry," I say. "I almost relapsed…"

He lets out a sigh. "Come to me next time."

"If I can," I murmur. "I tend not to think about other people when I'm in a bad state. I just… I need release. That's all that's on my mind."

"Yeah," he says softly.

I smile faintly and say, "Wanna come inside? We can talk. Really talk, I mean."

And, so, we do.

* * *

The following weekend night, I end up at Kyle's. I feel like I'm ready to take things another step further. We've been talking more and we've been supporting one another. I feel like things are good and honest between us.

Still, it makes me wary. A touch can hold so much intent and not all of it is good. A touch can help or harm and for people like me, the line is thin.

Nonetheless, I put my hesitance aside as I let myself into the Broflovski house. Sheila and Gerald are away for the weekend and Ike is at a sleepover. It'll just be me and Kyle.

I step into Kyle's room, closing and locking the door once I'm inside. I dim the lights, but I don't turn them off. I want him to see me, after all.

"I'm going to take my clothes off," I say, turning to face him.

Kyle is lying in bed with a book. When I get the words out, his lips part in surprise and he asks, "What, why?" He closes the book and sets the book on his nightstand.

"I just… I want you to see me before we do anything more than what we've been doing," I murmur.

He softens. "But why? Are you afraid that I won't like what I see? Trust me, Stan, I will."

"I have scars," I tell him.

"So do I," he replies.

"Can I still do this?" I ask him. "I feel like… I want to, but I also feel like I need to."

He's frowning. "Don't feel like you _need_ to. Take your time. We don't have to do this now."

"I feel okay," he confesses. "I mean, right this second… So, I want to do it now."

"Okay," he says quietly. He sits up in the center of his bed and crosses his legs, watching me.

"I might chicken out halfway," I say with a laugh.

He smiles faintly. "It's okay."

"I keep wondering if this would feel easier if I wasn't attacked," I muse, taking another step into his room. "Probably…"

"Maybe," Kyle whispers.

"How does it feel when you take off your clothes?" I ask him.

"Depends who I'm with," he admits. "When I'm with myself, I don't really think about it. It's just something I do. When I was with… Cartman… it was unpleasant."

"What about the other people you've been with?" I pry. "Was it ever hard?"

"No," he confesses. "Maybe awkward and nervous the first couple times, but… I guess I just kind of got used to my body being naked with another body."

I nod my head and I don't say anything more after that. Instead, I finally reach for the rim of my shirt and begin slowly taking off my clothes. My hands are shaking and I'm nervous, but I wonder if that's a normal feeling.

I stare down at myself as I undress. I feel embarrassed. I try to remind myself that I shouldn't, but it seems impossible. When I glance up, Kyle is staring at me and I feel my face heat up.

"Come here," he whispers, holding out his hand.

"I'm not done," I point out. I'm still wearing my boxer-briefs.

"That's okay," Kyle says. "Come here."

Maybe it's messed up that I feel like I need to do this, but I do. I reach into my waistband and push my shorts down so I'm standing without a stitch of clothing. Kyle stands up and he stares at me. I feel mildly self-conscious, but not as bad as I feel when I'm staring at myself.

"I've never seen you naked before," he murmurs.

I wrap my arms around myself.

"You look beautiful," he adds, moving forward. He puts a palm against my chest. "Your heart is beating really fast."

"I'm nervous," I tell him, forcing a laugh. "You get undressed, too."

"All right," he agrees softly. He takes a step back and begins shrugging out of his clothes. I vaguely recall the last time I saw him naked – when he was beneath Cartman. That memory still upsets me quite a bit, to be honest. I don't like thinking of Kyle with anyone else, especially not someone like Cartman. I watch him undress and I admire him and how different his body is from mine.

Before seeing him with Cartman, I hadn't seen him naked since we were little children. Naturally, much has changed since then.

I notice some cuts on his arms and legs, but I don't point them out. They make me sad, but I don't say that. I just stay quiet and admire him because he's so boyishly pretty.

"So…" he starts trailing off.

"Does it hurt?" I ask. "I mean… I know what happened to me hurt but that's not really sex, is it? What does it feel like when you did it with Cartman?"

"It still hurt," Kyle admits.

We lie down on the bed and face one another.

"Nervous?" he asks.

"Yeah," I admit quietly.

"Roll over," he instructs.

I do so and we just lie together in my bed and talk. He touches me in an intimate, yet nonsexual way. He just rubs my back.

"Feels good…" I mumble groggily.

It can be nice.

* * *

We didn't do anything. We just looked at each other. Kyle had an erection, but he didn't even ask me to touch it. For that, I'm glad. I wouldn't have known what to do because I'm still not quite ready for any kind of sex. Thinking about it just gives me more anxiety. I could barely bring myself to glance down at it.

I was soft. It kind of made me wonder if I'm even capable of getting an erection around another person or if I have performance anxiety… Probably. That in itself just causes me further general anxiety.

I don't want past memories to constantly hinder my present… and last night, they didn't. I wasn't thinking about anything painful.

When the nervousness subsided, we talked and laughed and it felt good between us. It makes me feel like we'll truly be able to weather through anything that comes our way. We've already survived so much.

I wanna be strong and stand on my own, but I think it's all right to lean on someone else when things get too tough.

* * *

So, everyone is okay.

Well, sorta.

Eh, not really.

I guess that's a relative term… but I do feel like things are slowly piecing together. I feel like I can have the things I once thought I'd never be able to reach. I feel a little more optimistic. I don't feel as bitter, as sad, as ashamed.

I've been trying not to think too much about the future and the very real reality of Kyle leaving for Denver. I'll probably get pretty upset when he leaves, but I'm going to try not to make him feel bad about it.

Graduation is nearing. It feels like the year sped by. I guess it felt that way because so much happened. A lot of it was bad, but hey, at least it's over now. I have to try not to dwell. That never does any good.

I haven't relapsed yet. Neither has Kyle. Neither has Craig. I guess that counts, but if it does happen I would like to tell them that it's okay. Relapse is normal. It sucks, but it happens. I think they'd say the same to me, too.

Exam season is here. Me and Kyle are at the public library with open textbooks in front of us. He glances up and stares at me, looking unsure.

"What is it?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Are you gonna be okay when I leave?" he asks. "I'll only be in Denver."

"I might be sad about it," I admit, "but I'll be okay. Plus, it'll give me something to look forward on weekends and holidays."

He smiles. "True," he agrees. "I'll miss you, too. Like, a fucking lot."

"Let's not think about it now," I say, since we still have some months 'til then.

"All right," he says.

When I'm with him, I feel comfortable and safe and I don't think as much about all the bad shit that often crosses my mind. It's so far away when I'm with him.

Maybe that sounds dependent of me, but when he's gone I can work on becoming a little more independent.

"I love you," I say out of the blue.

He smiles at that. "I love you, too."

I wonder if Kyle thinks about the future as much as I do. I wonder if I'm a big part of his thoughts. I hope I am. I want him to see potential in me and our relationship. I think he does, but there are times when I still worry because the fear is just a part of who I am now. I don't want it to be, but it's hard. It's really fucking hard.

* * *

Kyle spends the night at my house again. We sleep side by side in my bed and come morning I wake up first, just like I usually do. For a while, I watch him sleep and I continue to stare at him as he wakes up.

I love him. I really, really do. I feel like it took a lot for us to finally be together and I'm glad we're finally here.

Kyle shifts in bed, looking at me with groggy eyes. I simply smile. "Good morning."


	6. Epilogue

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **Sorry this took long again I'm pretty distracted lately haha. I'm gonna try and work on some longer fics soon. Plus, I've still got a ton of 1shots I need to edit/post. Stay tuned~**

* * *

Graduation came and then passed and so have the years after that, but I remember that Craig was so high during ceremony I don't think he even realized what was going on. Tweek was standing behind him and he had to give Craig a shove when they called his name. At least it was only weed that time. I like to think he won't ever touch the hard stuff again. He says he probably won't.

When I asked about the ceremony, Craig told me he felt too anxious and needed something to dull him out of it. I guess I can understand that. I felt nervous walking across the stage, too. I got an incredibly loud, roaring applause and it just made me feel embarrassed because I knew that everyone was thinking about how much I've struggled. They probably think it's surprising that I even managed to graduate. Ha…

Kyle is at university now. It makes me sad that I don't get to see him as much, but we still talk daily and he comes back home most weekends. He's only in Denver, after all and he'll be graduating this year. Right now, he's writing his final exams. Soon enough, he'll be back in South Park waiting for the results. I know he'll do perfectly. He always does.

Somewhere amidst all the high school shit, I found my calling. I realized that I just want to help people. So, I got a job as volunteer coordinator at the local youth center. It's pretty ideal and I get to talk to a lot of kids who are in pain. I try to show them that there's always light at the end of the tunnel, even if there are times when find it hard to believe myself. At the end of the day, it's something I find comfort in.

I'm twenty-one now. Some days are still hard, but I know I'm not alone. Everyone is still struggling. I'm still struggling. Kyle is still struggling. Kenny is still struggling. Craig is still struggling. Tweek is still struggling, too. But I guess it's okay as long as we make it out in the end… and it's far from the end. I've been trying to spend more time with friends and less time alone at home. I think more social activity does me good, though I do get quite a lot when I'm working. It forces me out when I just feel like sulking by myself.

I still live at home. Kenny doesn't. He moved out and got an apartment with Craig the summer after we graduated. He doesn't hook anymore. He got beat up a few months ago by one of his clients. I guess things got out of control and, for the first time, he got scared. Craig cried in the hospital and pleaded with Kenny, who finally agreed to try a different career option. Things can get dangerous. It's not fair, but it's true. This shit happens all the time and until things are safer for people in that line of work, it's probably best that he tries something new. He also quit his day job since his boss was a creep. Now he works in a sex shop, which he says isn't as thrilling as some people might think it is, but he gets a discount which he takes full advantage of.

Craig, on the other hand, still works at the shelter. It suits him. I can't really picture him working anywhere else.

They're engaged, crazy enough. Kenny asked Craig to marry him in the hospital. He said it was something he had been thinking about for a long time. Craig got mad and told him to ask again when they weren't in the ER. So, he did. He topped it all off with a fancy candlelit dinner because he says Craig is secretly a romantic. So, when he popped the question Craig said yes.

Craig says he likes to think of himself as recovered, but then there are times when the thoughts make their way back and the word makes more sense in a present tense. _Recovering_. I understand that, really, I do.

I think it's funny that someone I once didn't think much of quickly became one of my best friends. He always jokes around and says it's because I was so nosy in high school and I guess it's true. He says he's happy now and that makes me happy, too.

Time flies.

Summer is once again approaching.

I've been attending A.A. meetings. It usually helps me stay on track with my sobriety, but last month I got arrested for driving under the influence. Kyle paid bail and the ride was quiet until he started crying halfway. He said he felt like I was slipping and, god, it felt like I was. I don't even know what triggered me. Sometimes shit just happens and a person can get overwhelmed.

I had one year of sobriety. I even had a stupid coin as a reminder… but after my relapse, I had to put it away and start over again. I felt like such a fucking failure, but 24 hours turned into a week which turned into a month. You just need to keep moving and try not to let the shit drag you down for too long. Easier said than done, but hey.

Cartman had a heart attack a year ago. I didn't even know young people could get heart attacks, but it happened. I like to think that what goes around comes around and that this was Cartman finally getting what he deserved. He survived. Initially I had hoped that it would lead to him trying to become a better person so he wouldn't continue to fuck with the lives of others… but it didn't and just last month he got arrested for money laundering. I guess what goes around really does come around because that put him away.

Kyle said he wanted to visit him in prison and get some sort of closure. They haven't spoken since high school and it boggles my mind why Kyle would want to go see Cartman, but I tried not to dissuade him. Instead, I agreed to go with him. That was last week and I don't think Kyle got any of the answers he wanted – though I have no idea what he expected to get out of the visit.

I remember walking into the visiting room with him.

" _I could never do what you're about to do_ ," I had told him, thinking about all the guys who tortured me that night when I was sixteen.

Kyle laughed, sounding somewhat hollow. " _Yeah_ …"

So, we stepped inside and saw Cartman in that dreary looking jumpsuit. I couldn't help but think he deserved it. When Kyle locked eyes with Cartman, I swear I felt every single one of his emotions. Nonetheless, he stayed calm and sat down.

" _What did I do to make you hate me so much?_ " he asked, sounding like he needed to know the answer.

Cartman sat back in his chair, arms crossed as he stared across the table. He looked angry and he didn't seem to be in a talking mood.

" _Come on_ …" Kyle urged somewhat pleadingly. " _I came all the way here_ …"

Cartman let out a breath, sounding inconvenienced. " _What if I don't have a reason?"_ he started. " _What if I just hate you… because I'm that kind of guy? Then again, what if I told you I never hated you and it was just my idea of fun?"_

Kyle was frowning at that point.

" _Why are you here, Kahl?"_ Cartman had asked. " _Do you expect an apology? What the hell do you want out of this little visit_?"

" _To understand_ ," Kyle responded.

" _I don't hate you, Kahl_ ," Cartman had said. " _I never hated you. I don't hate you or your religion or your stupid liberal beliefs. I never actually gave a rat's ass about any of that shit. At a young age, I realized that we were two completely different people who would never get along and I just enjoyed bothering you. I liked when you reacted. It gave me a twisted sense of pleasure to have control over you. So, I took it as far as I could, as far as you'd let me. It was a game and you were the toy."_

 _"I see_ ," Kyle said, sounding like he was dead on the inside. " _So, that's how it is…"_

Cartman is pure evil. He feels no empathy. He's selfish. He acts purely on his own desires and emotions. He only confirmed what everyone had already known – even Kyle.

We didn't linger after that. We left and I could tell Kyle was upset. Maybe he wanted to believe there was a better reason for it all, but there wasn't. So, I spent the night in his dorm room, making sure he was all right. The morning after, I took a bus back to South Park.

Me and Kyle aren't particularly stable people, but our relationship somehow manages to remain stable. We even managed to have sex a year after we started dating. It was nice. Kyle was nice. It didn't hurt. We don't do it often, though. Instead, we do other stuff. Sometimes we used a double-ended toy. At first I was pretty shy about using a toy, but it ended up being fun. I liked seeing Kyle all hot and bothered and I know he likes seeing me that way, too.

Sex was kind of a goal for me, something I wanted but was damn afraid of... but I'm not scared anymore. Not with Kyle.

Time can heal. Support can help. The right treatment can do wonders. I often got impatient and frustrated with myself and my slow progress, but looking back on it I think I did all right - especially for someone in my situation. I just keep having to remind myself that relapse is a normal part of recovery. I just need to strive to do better.

I think me and Kyle are good together. We understand each other. He actually talks to me these days. I think he learned that communication is necessary if you want any kind of relationship to work out. So, when he's sad, he tells me. When he wants to cry, he doesn't keep it in. He lets it out. When he wants to hurt himself, he comes to me.

Kyle will be home soon and this time he'll be home for good. He has already applied for local jobs and gone through an interview process. He'll be working for a local business, doing exactly what he wants – statistical analysis for a marketing company. I'm happy for him. He achieved his goal.

Kyle only goes to therapy once a month now. Dr. Hightower said that he showed a 'tremendous' improvement with the right treatment. Knowing that made me feel really fucking happy. It made me feel like it's actually possible for people to get better when they're at their lowest. It was... inspirational.

When I think about myself, I wonder if I'll always need to go to therapy. I think it'd be nice if I could somehow recover, but I still don't know how. I still don't feel like I can and everyone insists that it's okay.

I think we've both come to terms with all the shit we've been through. Now there is room for acceptance and acceptance always makes things easier.

It was a long, hard road… and it isn't over yet.

* * *

The following weekend, Kyle returns. I haven't seen him in a few weeks since his exams were taking up most of his time. As soon as I hear his car pull into the driveway, I jump up from the sofa. After swinging open the door, I see him walking up the stairs and we connect. I wrap my arms around him and hold him close for many long minutes, wanting to soak up the familiarity that is him.

When we finally break apart, we're smiling.

"God, I fucking missed you," he says with a breathless laugh.

"I missed you, too," I echo, inviting him in.

He closes the door behind himself, stepping out of his sneakers. We move into the kitchen and I make tea as he talks about how his exams went.

"You'll do well," I say confidently as I sit across from him at the table, placing a cup in front of him and one in front of myself. "You always do."

He nods his thanks. "When I'm settled in I want to get an apartment," he says. "You should move in with me."

I smile faintly at that. "The possibility of moving out and starting a life away from my family home causes me a lot of anxiety," I admit

"That's okay," Kyle tells me. "Baby steps. We don't have to rush into anything, but you should definitely sleep over the first night I move in."

"Deal," I say. "What kind of place do you want?"

"Hm… something small, modest, homey," he muses. "It's all I really need."

"Sounds nice," I comment. "I hope I can be a part of it, but I feel like there is still so much anxiety that's keeping me down."

"You're doing well," Kyle promises.

"Yeah," I say softly. "We both are."

I'm making progress. Yeah, it's been slow, but it's progress nonetheless and I can't deny that I've made so much. I no longer wish I died. The nightmares are few and far between. I'm on the road to self-acceptance.

And you know what?

Now I know it'll be okay.

I'm alive, after all… and I no longer regret that fact. I'm proud to say I've come this far.

 **Fin.**


End file.
